MI CORAZON
by SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: AU universe. Canon content, but coming at it from a different angle. Wincest-oriented, so if that's not your thing, don't read. Bobby's gone on a Wendigo hunt with Rufus and leaves the boys on their own. Is it too much to ask for a little quiet time? Yes. Yes it is.
1. Chapter 1

John carried Dean into the motel room and kicked the door shut behind him. Brushing past a wide-eyed Sam, he laid Dean down on one of the beds, then went to the kitchenette and dug a half-full bottle of bourbon out from under the sink.

"Dean!" Sam hovered over his brother, relieved beyond words to see the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest.

"He'll be fine. Just took a hard knock to the head." John took a deep gulp and sank wearily onto the other bed. "Hunt was a fucking train wreck."

When it was clear after a few seconds that no further explanation would be forthcoming, Sam, mouth tight, examined the ugly bruise on the side of his brother's head. Then he gently eased off Dean's boots and coat, and maneuvered him under the bed covers.

John put the cap back on the now nearly-empty bottle and fumbled it onto the bedside table. "Gotta sleep," he mumbled, lying down. "Wake me in a couple hours."

Sam didn't answer.

When the room was silent except for the sound of John's snoring, Sam toed off his boots and lay down beside his brother. He was trying very hard not to think of anything beyond the fact that his brother was back.

Safe, and mostly sound. Alive.

After a while, Dean muttered, stirred. Sam raised up on an elbow and stared down at him. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes creaked open. He stared at Sam, clearly confused, for a long moment. "Sammy?" His voice was raspy. He tried to sit up, then sank back with a faint groan.

"Lie still," Sam said anxiously. "You need to rest."

"Dad. . ."

" _He's_ fine." Sam's lip curled. "He's sleeping."

"Oh." Dean grimaced. " _Damn_ , Sammy, my _head_. . .

Sam quickly got some aspirin from the bathroom and Dean downed them with a few sips of water. Laying back against the pillow, he looked up at Sam with tired green eyes.

"I'm cold, baby. . ."

Shooting a glance at John, Sam slipped under the covers and snuggled up next to his brother.

"That's better," Dean mumbled, closing his eyes. "You know, Sammy, one day, you and me, we're gonna chase the sun."

"Florida." Sam agreed softly, smiling. "California."

"Hmm." Dean yawned. "Maybe Mexico. Just you and me."

With a contented sigh, Sam pressed a kiss under his brother's jaw. "Just you and me."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean climbed nimbly up the ladder to the top of the high dive and strode out to the end of the board, bouncing a little on his toes. Checking out the crowd below, he blew his brother an extravagant kiss, which left Sam feeling week in the knees, and looking furtively around to see if anyone else had noticed.

No one had, of course, except for the trio of girls standing not far from Sam. Giggling wildly, each was _sure_ Dean's kiss had been meant just for them.

Satisfied with his audience, Dean leaped into the air, folded himself into a perfect jackknife, then straightened and sliced cleanly into the water, drawing enthusiastic applause from around the pool.

When he popped back up after a few seconds, Sam went to the side of the pool and waited until Dean swam over.

Dean grinned up at him. "Come on in!"

Sam shook his head. "Sorry, Dean. Dad says it's time to go."

Dean's smile vanished. "But we just got here! You haven't even gotten your suit wet yet!"

Sam shrugged. "I don't mind."

Dean stared at him, then grinned mischievously. "Well, _I_ do!" Reaching up, he grabbed Sam by the leg and yanked him into the water.

"Dean!"

Dean winced. He looked from his scowling father, now poolside, to his indignantly flailing brother, and burst out laughing, unable to help himself.

John sighed. His gaze moved from Dean to Sam. The edges of his mouth quirked up reluctantly.

Turning back to Dean, he held up an index finger. "One hour."

"Thanks, Dad." Dean beamed at him, then squawked in surprise when Sam sprang on him with a wild screech and the two disappeared underneath the water.

John sat down on a nearby deck chair and watched them.

He couldn't stop smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam sighed. "Dean. . ."

Dean ran his hand caressingly down his brother's spine. "Feeling good, baby?"

"Hmm." Sam's reply was almost a purr, eyes half closed, lips curved in a sated smile.

It was rare the boys had the time to linger in bed. So, with John away for at least a week, Dean had called Sam in sick to school for the last three days, the curtains were pulled on the window, and Do Not Disturb was hanging on the doorknob.

Dean ran a trail of sighing kisses from his brother's forehead to his lips. "Sweet," he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sam, I didn't touch her, I swear!" Dean protested.

" _Liar_!" Eyes red and swollen, Sam shoved him away. "You _swore_ you'd _never_ –" He went for the door. "I'm outta here!"

"Sammy!" Dean rushed after, got between him and the door, tried to put his arms around his brother.

"Asshole! You _smell_ like her!" Sam shoved Dean back against the door, hard, then spun and stalked away.

"Damn it, listen!" Dean caught him, held him. " _She_ came on to _me_. I said no! There's no one, no one on _Earth_ but _you_! You're _it_!"

Sam glared at him. "Prove it!"


	5. GENETHLIAC

Sam had gotten over caring about his birthday a long time ago, but, for some reason, this year his family's absence stung.

His Dad and Dean had been gone for over a week. Dean had promised they'd be back in time, but Sam had known the promise wasn't worth much. Dean meant well, but whether they got back in time had zip to do with Sam's birthday, and everything to do with John and whether the hunt was finished or not.

So, when his birthday came, and Sam got back to the motel after school, he wasn't surprised to _not_ see the Impala parked out front.

Disappointed, maybe. Not surprised.

Before he even got the key into the lock, the room next door opened up, and its tenant came out, carrying two suitcases. "Hey, Sam! Just in time!"

"Hey, Eddie." Sam smiled, then nodded to the suitcases. "Headin' home?"

"Yeah, Sheila's decided to take my sorry ass back. _Again_." Eddie tried for casual, but it was clear how happy the man was to be going home.

"Think it'll work out this time?"

"Oh, sure." Eddie looked confident. "Sheila just likes her alone time. Every few months, she gets mad and throws me out. Then she spends some time with her friends trash-talking me. _Then_ she starts to miss me, and she calls me on back." He shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "It's kind of her thing."

Sheila sounded to Sam like a total bitch, but what did he know about women? He was just sorry to lose Eddie's company. The man played a mean hand of gin rummy.

He shook hands with his friend, then helped the man carry his suitcases to his car.

Once the cases were safely stowed in the trunk and Eddie was strapped into the driver's seat of his old Camaro, Sam bent over and looked in through the window. "See ya, Eddie."

"Yeah." Eddie looked from Sam to the rundown motel. A slight frown passed over his face. "See ya, Sam. You take care."

Sam raised his hand in a short wave as Eddie pulled out of the motel's parking lot and merged into traffic. Then, sighing, he turned and unlocked his door.

The door burst open and a pair of strong hands yanked him inside, slammed the door and shoved him back against it. A hard mouth came down on his, tongue forcing its way inside, and an inflexible knee forced his legs apart.

At the first touch, a startled Sam had been poised to strike but the familiarity of the rough hands, the taste of the intruder's mouth, had him suddenly moaning and grabbing onto his attacker's hips, pulling him even closer and grinding desperately against him.

There was a low chuckle.

"Happy birthday, baby," Dean whispered.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

OK, about the weird-ass title. Another writer on ff is doing word of the day challenges. That inspired me, so I'm going to combine my Wincest fic with the WOD. Today's word, genethliac, means having to do with birthdays.


	6. DESPERATE STRAITS

"Mr. Winchester!"

Startled, Sam looked up from his sketchbook. His history teacher, Miss Fletcher, stood beside his desk, staring down at him sternly.

"This is not _art_ class, Mr. Winchester."

Sam silently closed the sketchbook and put his pencil to the side.

After another admonitory look, Miss Fletcher turned away, navy blue skirt swirling around her knees as she marched back up to the front of her ninth-grade classroom.

"As I was saying," she continued, "there were several events that led to the start of World War I, but the one event that contributed the most would be – what?" She looked at Sam. "Mr. Winchester?"

Sam didn't speak for a long moment; long enough to raise a flurry of whispers and snickers from the rest of the class.

Miss Fletcher silenced them with a sharp look.

"Well, Mr. Winchester?"

Sam sighed. Fine. Whatever. "The key cause," he began colorlessly, "was the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary. He was killed in June of 1914 by a Serbian-nationalist terrorist group called the Black Hand. The assassination was to protest Austria-Hungary having control of Sarajevo."

When he paused, Miss Fletcher nodded and motioned for him to continue.

"When the Archduke was assassinated," Sam went on, "Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Russia joined in because they were allies with Serbia, and Germany declared war on Russia 'cause they were worried Russia would invade _them_." Sam shrugged. "Then everybody else just kinda jumped on board."

After a somewhat fraught silence, Miss Fletcher nodded. "Very good, Mr. Winchester. In future, however, I would appreciate your leaving that sketchbook in your backpack during my class."

The bell for lunch rang then, precluding the need for any answer he might make, and the class made a rush for the door. Sam waited until the last of them were out the door before he left, Miss Fletcher nodding coolly as he passed her desk.

Turning away from the crowd streaming to the cafeteria, Sam snagged his jacket from his locker, stopped at one of the drinking fountains to refill his water bottle, and made his way outside to the picnic tables set up beside the soccer field.

Sitting down at one of the tables, he zipped his jacket and turned up the collar. At least it was cold enough he wouldn't have to worry about sharing a table with someone else. He was in no mood to talk. Or listen.

Best of all, he wouldn't have to watch someone else eat. He hadn't had anything besides ramen all week, and not even _that_ since yesterday.

Sam sighed. It was okay. He was used to it. Besides, Dean and Dad would be back tonight and, if he knew Dean, there'd be cheeseburgers, fries, pie, maybe even –

 _Nope_. He cut that thought off. No thinking about food. It would just make his stomach hurt that much more. Resolutely, he took his pencil and sketchpad out of his backpack and started to work on his current piece - Dean leaning casually against the Impala, smiling out at him.

Eventually, he heard the warning bell in the distance. Before packing up, he studied the sketch critically. He was making good progress. Faces were hard, of course. Hard to get the features, the expression, just right.

Feeling a little melancholy, his fingers traced over Dean's face. Just a few more hours and they'd be home. _Dean_ would be home.

Sam let that thought warm him for a moment, then started reluctantly back to school.

ΩΩΩ

He cleaned the motel room when he got home that afternoon. It didn't need it, but his homework was finished, he wasn't in the mood to read, and he was way too distracted to work on his sketch. He had to do _something,_ or he'd go batshit crazy

While he worked, he kept an ear out for the sound of the Impala, though he had no idea what time they'd be rolling in. A couple of times he ran to the window, sure he'd heard her throaty rumble; each time he'd been disappointed.

At about six thirty, he was drinking yet another glass of water, trying to shut up his complaining stomach, when the room's phone rang, loud in the quiet room.

Sam's heart sank. _Shit_.

It rang five times before he could force himself to go to the heavy black instrument on the bedside table. He knew damn well what was coming.

"Sam?"

He strove for normal. "Hey, Dean."

There was a distinct pause on the other end of the line before Dean said, finally, "I'm sorry, man."

"That's okay. How much longer?"

The pause this time was longer, followed by a deep sigh. "At least a week, Sammy."

Seven more days.

Sam's eyes went involuntarily to the little kitchenette; it was sparkling clean, mostly because there hadn't been much of anything to cook the last few days. Hell, the last _week_.

His legs suddenly lost their strength and he sank down onto the bed.

"Sammy?" The worry in Dean's voice was clear.

"A week?" Sam shook himself. "Yeah, okay."

"You okay? You got enough money to last till we get there?"

A lash of rage flicked at Sam. Damn it, Dean _knew_ how much money John had left him, knew _exactly_ how long it would last. He had to know it would've already run out!

"Sure." He kept his tone light, though he wanted to scream.

 _What did you have for dinner today, Dean? What about lunch? How was that fucking cheeseburger?_

A frustrated exhalation on the other end of the line. "Sam, I –"

Sam struggled to stay steady. "Listen, I gotta go. I have a test tomorrow and I still have a lot of studying to do."

Another pause.

"Sammy," Dean said softly, "I'm really missing you."

"Yeah, me too." Sam's voice trembled, and he took an unsteady breath. "See you next week."

"Sammy, wait –"

Hands shaking, Sam fumbled the receiver back into its cradle. He sat there for a minute, head bowed, and hands clenched.

The phone rang again.

On the second ring, he grabbed the phone and threw it, cord yanking out of the wall as the instrument sailed across the room, hit the wall and fell to the floor.

Eyes stretched wide, breathing ragged, Sam stared at the mess and then, with a groan, slumped down onto the bed and tried not to cry.

ΩΩΩ


	7. DIRE NEED

Sam got lucky.

He found a house with no one home at the end of a residential cul-de-sac. The owners had left one of the rear windows open a couple of inches.

After making sure he couldn't be seen from next door, Sam listened at the window, but didn't hear any noise from inside. He whistled a couple of times, low-pitched, coaxing sounds, but got no response.

Good. No dog.

Satisfied, he slid the window open just enough to slide in. Once inside, he stood still for a long, tense minute, hearing nothing beyond the normal sounds any house makes. Sounds most people don't notice until the electricity goes out and they find out what real silence is.

Once he was certain the house was empty, Sam shut the window and went out into the hall, following it past a few bedrooms and a bathroom, then a large living room.

He found what he was looking for in the kitchen. Not bothering with a light, he pulled the pillowcase out from his hoodie pocket and started filling it with canned goods from one of the cupboards. He hesitated over a package of cookies – he didn't actually _need_ cookies - then told himself not to be a hypocrite and stuffed them in with the rest.

Bag almost full, Sam started to leave the kitchen, then paused at the refrigerator. He didn't want to mess with things that might spoil; the tiny motel fridge wouldn't hold much. After a brief hesitation, he opened it and was struck dumb by the amount of food inside. Milk, soda, juice, leftovers packed in little plastic containers. Vegetables, fruit. . . He stared at it and wondered bitterly if the owners of this house knew how lucky they were, or did they take all this for granted?

He was closing the door when a plate on the upper shelf caught his eye. It held a half-eaten roast chicken, covered with plastic. Unable to stop himself, he picked it up, wide-eyed, hypnotized. He could _smell_ it through the plastic. It took every ounce of strength he had not to rip the plastic off and eat it then and there.

Hands shaking a little, he dumped the chicken, plate and all, into the pillowcase and left the house by the back door, careful to lock it behind him.

ΩΩΩ

Sam stared despondently at his pile of contraband on the table.

He was a thief.

A fucking _thief_.

Didn't matter that he didn't have any choice. Stealing was stealing.

Yeah, he and his family used phony credit cards, did stuff that would get them thrown in jail if they were caught, but this – this was different. This had nothing to do with the greater good crap his dad was always talking about. This was flat-out stealing. Worse yet – he stared at the plate of chicken—he was stealing people's _leftovers_.

Sighing, he sorted through the cans, trying to figure out how long he could make them last, deciding at last that he had at least two weeks' worth of food; more if he held himself to just one meal a day, which shouldn't be a problem. Plus, he'd scored a box of grits. Those would stick to his ribs a lot longer than ramen. He'd hang on to that.

Intensely aware of the plastic-wrapped chicken, he got to his feet and found room for most of the cans in the kitchenette's tiny cupboard. The rest he stowed underneath the sink. Only then did he allow himself to sit back down at the kitchen table and unwrap the chicken. He stared at it for a long time and, when he finally started to eat, did so slowly, trying to make it last.

In the end he couldn't finish it. His stomach had shrunk too much. He re-wrapped the remains in the original plastic and put it in the fridge, feeling a sick mixture of satisfaction and shame.

That night, even with a full stomach, sleep was a long time coming.


	8. LAST STAND

The Impala was parked outside the motel when Sam came home after school nearly two weeks later.

Sam hovered nervously outside the motel, a formless resentment stewing in his gut. He hadn't spoken to Dean since the night he'd done his cat burglar routine. The only contact had been a hurried phone call from John a few days earlier, telling him to be ready to move on by the weekend.

And now here they were.

Sam wasn't one hundred percent sure how he felt about that, but he was pretty sure pissed off was a big damned part of it.

When he'd finally managed to talk himself inside, John was sleeping on one of the beds, a big, anonymous lump, boozy snores muffled by a couple of blankets.

Dean was sitting in the kitchen, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. He looked tired, exhausted, but his handsome face lit up at the sight of his brother. " _Sammy_." Smiling, he rose and grabbed Sam in a hard hug, backpack and all, burying his face in his brother's hair with a heavy sigh. "God, I _missed_ you!"

Feeling awkward and edgy, Sam returned the hug, then pulled back at Dean's wince. "What's wrong? Ribs?"

"Yeah." Dean made a face. "Ghost tossed me into a gravestone."

"Any broken?"

"Nah. Just sore."

"Good." Sam shrugged off his backpack. "So, what's happening?"

"Turned out to be a witch." Dean picked his glass back up and took a healthy gulp. "What a _bitch_. She was casting spells, getting ghosts to do all her dirty –"

"No, not that," Sam cut him off impatiently. "I've got all our stuff packed and ready. Where are we going?"

Dean hesitated, and Sam knew. He just fucking _knew_. He strove for calm. "He's planning to leave me here, isn't he?"

"Dad got a call on the way back." Dean shot a glance over at their sleeping father. "There's a haunting. Some monastery in Mohawk, Michigan. Quick job, in and out, won't take more than a day or—"

"No."

"Sam, I know," Dean said placatingly, "but –"

"No," Sam repeated. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes - angry tears, hurt tears, want to smash everything in the room tears. " _No_." He started for the door and, when his brother blocked him, spun and made for the bathroom, Dean hot on his heels.

Desperate not to have an audience for the tears he was sure were about to spill over, he tried to keep Dean out, but he was too fast. When the bathroom door was closed and locked, he was in there with Sam.

Dean tried to hug him, but Sam's hot glare drove him back. He sighed. "Baby, I know it was hard, we were a lot longer than we thought we'd be, but –" he stalled, tried again. "It'll just be a couple more days."

"Sure, until something else comes up," Sam scoffed. "Then it'll be another phone call and another couple of days, and then it's another week! I'm _sick_ of it!"

"Dad's just thinking about school!"

" _Screw_ school!"

"Since when do _you_ not like _school_?" Dean protested, feeling blindsided.

"Since he stopped leaving you with me." Sam angrily swiped away a stray tear. "Since you started leaving me alone for weeks. Since —" He stopped, the words 'you and me' unspoken, but understood, if Dean's sharply in-drawn breath was anything to go by.

Dean laid an uncertain hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'll talk to Dad. Next time -"

Sam shrugged him off and drew in a shaky breath. "I'm _done_ being left behind, Dean. The next time you guys leave me, I won't be there when you get back."

Stunned, Dean didn't try to stop him when Sam pushed past and left the bathroom. He heard the outer door open and close with a sharp click. Legs feeling weak, he sat down on the toilet seat and tried to figure out what the hell to do.


	9. BEGINNINGS

Stomach churning with anxiety, Sam took another rapid circle around the block, ignoring the lengthening shadows of the afternoon. All he could think about, all he could _see,_ was the lost look on Dean's face when he'd left him in the bathroom. He knew he'd hurt his brother, and badly, but he simply couldn't go on this way, a piece of him forever missing, carved out, raw and bloody.

Caught up in his thoughts, he nearly plowed into a group of chattering teens as they exited a fried chicken place. With a mumbled apology, he lowered his head and continued on, ignoring the smart-aleck remarks shouted after him.

Screw them. Screw this town. Screw Dad. Screw. . .

 _No_. Dean was blameless in this. He'd done his best, always had, always would. The only happiness, the only peace, Sam ever felt was when he was in Dean's arms.

He was the _one_ good thing in this shit life. And that could all be ashes now, if things went wrong with Dad.

Sam pushed down the cold lump of fear in his throat. He'd made his decision. He was done being left behind. Just – _done_.

Almost running now, he came around the corner, hurrying past the convenience store and the always-jammed laundromat which backed up onto the motel parking lot.

Halfway across the lot, he saw Dean digging around inside the open trunk of the Impala, and froze.

Shit! They were _leaving_?

Stunned, nearly breathless, Sam somehow got his feet moving again and walked slowly towards the Impala and his brother.

Dean finished whatever he was doing, slammed the trunk and saw Sam, saw the look on his little brother's face. " _Sammy_?" He took an uncertain step forward, halting when John appeared in the open door and stepped outside.

"Dean, take a look around inside." His tone was clipped. "Make sure we don't leave anything behind."

Dean hesitated, but, at a stern look from his father, he flung an anxious glance at Sam and went inside, shutting the door and leaving Sam alone with his father.

John, his dark, bearded face expressionless, stared at his youngest for what seemed to a nervous Sam like a very long time.

"You sure about this?" he asked abruptly.

Sam didn't let himself think, just nodded.

Suddenly there was a muffled curse. They both turned as a door further down was flung open, and a worn-looking woman emerged, juggling a couple of battered suitcases. Throwing them a suspicious glare, she crossed the motel lot to a beat-up looking Ford, threw her bags into the trunk, and in seconds was peeling out of the parking lot.

"Hell." John suddenly looked tired. "Sam, you think I _like_ leaving you in holes like this? I'm trying to give you a chance at something else, something better –"

Sam's lips tightened into a hard line, and John sighed.

"Fine. I'm not gonna try and talk you out of it. If I'd known you felt this way – well, I need you, _we_ need you, especially with research. Dean's about as much use on that end as a bull with tits."

Trying not to show the relief flooding through him, Sam nodded.

"But, Sam – there'll be no more school." John paused, waiting for a reaction.

Sam didn't give him one. "Okay, Dad."

John stared at him. Finally, with a nod toward the motel door, he said, "Go help your brother. We leave in five."

Sam nodded again and turned toward the door; then, impulsively, he turned back. "I won't let you down, Dad."

John didn't answer. but as the big man looked at him, Sam saw something unexpected in his father's dark eyes.

It looked a lot like sorrow.


	10. COVETOUS

The two teens checked in just after midnight with their father, all of them looking hollow-eyed, dirty and exhausted.

The older man paid for the room with a credit card Mike suspected didn't belong to him. Not that he cared. It was a shit job at a shit motel. He wouldn't be hanging around too much longer.

Mildly interested, he watched as the three disappeared into their room, hauling a few heavy-looking duffels and a big bag of fast food.

He didn't see them again for the rest of the night. When he came back for his shift the next day, the big man and his black Impala were gone, but he'd left his sons behind.

That had been four days ago.

Mike had seen the teens out and about. At the video arcade down the street, the convenience store; once or twice ambling down the street. They'd been laughing, shoving at each other, kid stuff, but, still, both kept a wary eye out.

Mike knew that wariness. He'd seen it before, mostly on losers who'd eventually ended up behind bars. He didn't get that particular vibe from these two, but – there was just _something_ about them.

It didn't take him long to suss it out. Mike had a talent for sniffing out people's guilty secrets.

And even in Vegas, brother on brother is a pretty big fucking deal.

ΩΩΩ

Late Saturday, just after the start of his shift, Mike caught a flash of movement out the office window and saw the two boys leaving their room, the older one carrying one of their duffel bags.

Not talking much, they walked down the dimly lit sidewalk to the motel's laundry room, opposite the office. When they went inside, Mike turned back to the television, flipping irritably through all the channels before giving up and turning it off.

A few people checked in. A few checked out. Mike handled it all with his customary indifference.

During a quiet moment, his glance went across to the laundry room, where the teens were sitting on the curb outside, clearly lit by the fluorescent light from the open door.

As Mike watched, the older boy slung an arm around his brother and pulled him in close, pressing a kiss to the top of the boy's dark head.

The younger boy looked up and gave his brother a smile of such devotion, such sweetness, Mike's heart gave an envious, pained little twist.

A horn blasted into the night and a car pulled into the motel's lot.

The Impala.

Engine loud in the relative quiet, the black beast slid into its parking space. With a quick word to his brother, the older boy jumped to his feet and ran to their father. After a short exchange, he went into their room and started carrying out bags.

Shoulders slumping a bit, the younger boy went back into the laundry room. Through the open door, Mike could see him pulling clothes out of one of the dryers.

Then the office door opened and one of the motel's long-term residents came in, hat in hand and resentful, wanting to explain why he was late with the rent again. By the time he finally left the office, the Impala was gone.

Mike stared at the empty parking space, expressionless. After a moment, he shrugged and turned on the television.

But part of him, a part that didn't get a lot of light, couldn't stop thinking about the younger boy's face when he looked at his brother. It made him feel prickly, and restless.

ΩΩΩ

Mike quit the next morning.

It was time to move on.


	11. FIRST BLOOD

With an angry roar, John plowed into the vampire, knocking her off Sam, but she was fast. too fast. Before John could get back to his feet, the vamp was on him, hands wound tight around his throat.

Vision graying in and out, Sam climbed to his feet. Ignoring the pain in his torn throat, he plunged a shaking hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out the hypodermic needle his father had given him earlier that night, lurched over to the combatants and plunged it into the vampire's back.

Screeching with pain, she twisted around, releasing John; he fell helpless to the floor, choking and gasping, trying to pull in air.

Knowing he was no match for her but desperate to keep her off his father, Sam threw himself onto the vamp. The enraged monster backhanded him, knocking him to the floor, his head bouncing hard as it connected.

Feeling the dead man's blood working through her, the vampire twisted and turned, trying to get at the hypo bobbing back and forth in her back, but it was too late. Within seconds, her legs slid out from under her and she crashed down next to Sam.

His face red, trying to breathe past the finger-shaped bruises on his throat, John lunged to his feet, pulled out his long knife and staggered over to the two crumpled forms. Dragging the vamp a few feet away from his son's unconscious body, he started cutting, ignoring her horrific screams.

He didn't stop until her head was off and rolling across the gymnasium floor.

ΩΩΩ

John jerked out his cell phone and pressed speed dial one.

"Get over to the gymnasium," he said hoarsely when Dean answered. "Fast."

He hung up, not waiting for an answer, then pulled a worn handkerchief from his pocket and pressed the cloth to the wound on Sam's throat.

At John's touch, Sam stirred, moaned.

"Stay still, Sam," John rumbled. "Stay still. The vamp's dead."

" _Ow,_ " Sam rasped. " _Ow_." He started to raise a hand to his throat, but John pushed it away.

"Don't." He carefully lifted the handkerchief to check on the wound. It had stopped bleeding. Blowing out a sigh of relief, he ran a shaking hand over his boy's hair, then raised his head as a pair of familiar-sounding boots pounded toward the gym. When the door crashed open, Dean stood frozen for a long moment, surveying the carnage, then he was sprinting across the room and dropping to his knees next to his brother.

"Sam!"

"I'm okay, Dean." Sam's voice was faint, but his smile real. "I just got a little chewed on." He winced. "Shit. And my head _hurts_."

Face taut and grim, Dean looked at the bloody remains of the vamp and then at John. "What the _hell_ happened?" he said accusingly.

"The vamp had a kid under the bleachers when we got here." John nodded bleakly toward the bleachers. "One of the cheerleaders. Sam tried to pull it off her." He shook his head when Dean got quickly to his feet. "It's too late."

"Damn it!" Dean ran an agitated hand through his hair. " _Damn_ it! We should've -"

"We can't save them all." John's tone was flat. He looked back down at Sam, who had closed his eyes. "I'll clean up here, Dean. Take your brother back to the motel. Keep an eye on him; watch for concussion."

Dean nodded. Mouth tight, he helped Sam up, steadying him when he wobbled.

"Take it easy, son." John put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Head aching fiercely, but determined not to show weakness, Sam straightened. "I just need some aspirin."

"Good boy." John looked across at the dead vamp. "You did good tonight, Sam. If you hadn't gotten that dead man's blood into her, we'd probably both be dead."

Both boys' eyes widened in surprise at the rare compliment.

Looking a little embarrassed, John went on quickly, "You two head out. I'll see you at the motel in a few hours."

Hand on Sam's arm, Dean hesitated, looking toward the bleachers, where he could just see a still, huddled form. "Dad - is she gonna rise?"

The skin on John's face tightened and he suddenly looked every one of his hunter's years. "I'll take care of it."

For a moment the big room was silent except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead.

"Okay," Dean finally said, voice subdued. "You sure you don't want me to come back?"

"No." John's dark eyes went to the bleachers, then to the long knife lying next to the dead bloodsucker. "You just take care of your brother."

ΩΩΩ

A few minutes into their drive back to the motel, Dean flicked a quick sideways glance at Sam, who was drooping a little in the passenger seat of the Impala, waiting for the aspirin to work. "You okay?"

Sam was silent. Finally, a slight catch in his voice, he said, "The – the girl. It's my fault she's dead."

"That's bullshit, Sammy." After the initial surprise, Dean's scowl was fierce. " _You're_ the one who figured out where that freak would be tonight! Left to me and Dad, we'd have been at the other end of town. Maybe if we'd listened to you upfront, she'd still be alive. No way this shit's on you."

Sam shook his head vehemently, then gasped and closed his eyes against the pain in his head. "Dean, no, it's not your fault."

Dean snorted. "Damn straight. Put it where it belongs. On that bitch vamp." He smirked. "That _dead_ bitch vamp."

Head hurting too much to argue, Sam murmured an affirmative, but Dean didn't buy it. "Sam, you heard Dad," he persisted. "You did good. It's just - it's like Dad always says. We can't save them all."

"When we first got there, she was still alive." Sam drew in a shaky, tear-filled breath. "I could – she – if I could've just pulled her off _faster_ …"

"Sammy, that thing was kickin' _Dad's_ ass. How were you supposed to stop it?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Besides, remember what Dad said. You pumping dead man's blood into it is what gave Dad the chance to kill it. You did good, baby." Keeping his eyes on the road, he stretched out his hand.

Sighing, Sam grasped it and scooted over, leaning against him with a deep sigh of contentment. "I like it when you call me baby," he said presently.

Dean grinned, pleased.

Rain started to fall. Dean turned on the windshield wipers, their familiar syncopated rhythm soothing, comforting.

A few minutes later, Sam was asleep, head resting on his brother's shoulder, and still holding his hand.


	12. A IS FOR APPENDIX

"Happy birthday, Sammy!"

"Dean!" Sam's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Holy _crap_!"

"Cool, huh?" Dean sat down on the hospital bed next to Sam and hugged him, very carefully. "Now Dad can't bitch that your books take up too much room in the car."

"I can't believe it!" Sam hugged the Kindle close. "You – _thanks_!"

"You like it, huh?" Dean smirked.

Sam smiled at the understatement. Leaning in close to Dean, he offered his mouth. "It's not my birthday, though," he murmured.

Dean ran a tender hand down the side of his brother's face. "Every day's your birthday, baby boy."

((((((((

Yeah, I know, Kindles weren't around then, but I wanted to give him one, so I did.


	13. FAINT RECOLLECTIONS OF A FUTURE CONNECTI

Ω

Sam sat bolt upright in bed, soaked in sweat and trying to catch his breath.

Shaking, he reached for the bedside lamp, then stopped uncertainly, looking at Dean sleeping beside him, at John on the other bed.

They were all exhausted after their last hunt. That witch had nearly finished them all before John had gotten in a lucky shot. No way he was going to wake them up. He wasn't a fucking baby.

But God, that _dream_!

The mindless terror on the man's face as gas fumes filled the car. The way he'd pounded on the windows, trying to break the glass, trying to escape. His screams. His final choking gasps.

Sam shuddered. Those glassy, _lifeless_ eyes!

He needed out of this bed for a few minutes. No way he was going back to sleep; at least, not for a while.

Dean stirred restlessly beside him, bed creaking.

Sam slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door before he turned on the light.

Going to the sink, he splashed cold water over his face, trying to wash away the last shards of the dream, but the man's agonized face stayed with him and he leaned against the counter, shaking.

 _Damn_ it! What the _hell_ was it about this dream?

He'd had nightmares before, a million of them. With their lifestyle, the things he'd seen, it would have been a miracle if he hadn't. But this – this dream had been different. Not the usual mishmash of chaotic images jumping back and forth with no rhyme or reason, it had _flowed_ , completely linear, almost like – no, _exactly_ like watching a movie, widescreen. Even now, he could see each frame of it as clearly as when he'd been asleep and dreaming. Hell, he could almost _smell_ the reek of the gas, the stink of urine and feces as the man's body surrendered to death.

Sam shuddered again and splashed more water onto his face.

There was a faint scratching on the door. " _Sammy_?"

Straightening, Sam looked guiltily into the mirror. Taking a breath, he flushed the toilet and ran the water again in the sink for a moment, then turned off the light and opened the door.

Dean hovered outside. "You okay?" he whispered.

Sam glanced over at their sleeping father, then kissed Dean lightly on the lips. "I'm fine," he whispered back. "Just had to pee."

Dean yawned. "Come back to bed."

The boys climbed back into bed and burrowed under the covers. A few minutes later, Dean had slipped back into sleep, spooning up behind his brother.

Sam lay awake for the rest of the night.

ΩΩ

The next night, two states over, Sam startled awake with a gasp.

Both hands holding tight to the worn blanket, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to control the violent tremors shuddering through him, trying not to scream, to shake off the images filling his brain. The window crashing down, the fear in the man's eyes when he'd realized what was happening (no time, there'd been no _time_ ), the jagged glass as it tore into the man's throat.

And the blood, God, the _blood_ , it had been like a fountain, spouting up to the ceiling and spattering the walls.

Sam swallowed convulsively, feeling sick.

A hand touched his arm. He jumped, his gasp loud in the quiet room.

"Hey, shh, shh," Dean hissed. "You'll wake Dad. It's okay. You're okay."

 _Shit._ Sam drew in a shaky breath. _Shit._

"Bad dream?"

"Yeah." Sam tried to smile.

From the expression on Dean's face, it didn't work.

John shifted in the other bed, then mumbled something and turned over. Both boys stayed quiet. In a couple of minutes, the older man's breathing leveled back out. Both boys relaxed.

"Same dream as last night?"

Startled, Sam looked over at Dean.

"Duh. Course I knew," his brother chided softly. "So, same dream?"

Sam was silent, chewing over how much to tell him.

Dreams weren't a big deal. These last two were probably just a hangover from that last hunt. Not fun, but still only dreams.

It was just he didn't want Dean, or, worse, _Dad_ , thinking he couldn't hack it. If he wasn't careful, he could find himself sitting out their hunts in a stupid motel room again.

No way. _No_.

"Sam?"

He shook his head firmly. "It's okay, Dean. No big deal."

Dean grunted, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

Sam reached out and touched Dean's face. "It was just a dream," he said pleadingly.

With a sigh, Dean covered Sam's hand with his own.

Kid was a crap liar, at least with him.

He didn't know what the hell was going on, but his little brother antenna, honed to the nth degree by years of close observation, was practically screaming.

He glanced warily over at the sleeping form of their father. There was _something_ going on, but no way he'd be digging it out of Sam tonight. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

"Dean?"

Even in the darkness, Dean could see the anxiety on Sam's face. He gently laid two fingers over his little brother's lips, quieting him, then brushed a light kiss onto his forehead. "Go to sleep, baby."

Sam pressed in close and nibbled a kiss underneath his brother's ear.

In a few minutes, safe in Dean's arms, soothed by the steady beat of his lover's heart, Sam slept.

ΩΩΩ

Shaking the rain from his hair, arms full of breakfast and the Sunday paper, Dean closed the door of the motel room with a sharp bump of his hip.

"Breakfast!" he announced.

John sat with Sam at the room's small table. "Tell me you got coffee," he grumped.

Dean rolled his eyes and set a large cup on the table in front of his father. "No, Dad, no coffee."

Sam snickered.

John picked up the cup and took a large gulp. "Oh, yeah." A second gulp and then he opened the newspaper and started to peruse the headlines.

Sam snickered again. Dad was totally coffee's bitch!

Stomach growling at the wonderful smells emanating from the bags, he started to poke through them, grinning when he found one that smelled like heaven.

He pulled it out and peeked inside.

Yes! Pancakes! And strawberry syrup!

"Thanks, Dean," he said happily.

Dean ruffled his hair, then sat down and unloaded the rest of the food. Once everything was spread out, he paused, sighed, closed the Styrofoam lid on the bacon, and then headed for the bathroom.

"Don't touch the bacon until I get back, Sammy!"

Sam stuck a piece of bacon into his mouth. "Sure, Dean!"

"Fucker!"

John ignored them both.

Sam put several pieces of bacon onto Dean's plate and snagged a few pieces for himself.

"Hey, Dean!" Happily slathering strawberry syrup over his pancakes, Sam shouted, "This is really good bacon! Better hurry up!"

Dean shouted a threat from the bathroom.

"Yeah, yeah!" Chuckling, fork full of pancakes, Sam glanced casually over at his father and froze when he caught sight of a boldly printed headline.

 **"Window Guillotines Man, 52."**

Sam started to shake. With a strangled sound, he dropped his fork and lunged across the table, tearing the newspaper away from his startled father and knocking over John's coffee in the process.

Coffee spilled everywhere and John jerked back, swearing. Grabbing a few napkins, he dropped them on top of the mess. "Sam, what the hell –"

Sam's eyes were huge in his starkly pale face, intent on whatever he was reading, oblivious to his father, the spilled coffee, and the plate of strawberry pancakes, now perilously close to falling off the table.

Dean came out of the bathroom and stopped short in surprise. "What's going on?"

John shook his head, eyes intent on his youngest. "Sam?"

Sam didn't hear him. His eyes skipped disbelievingly over the newspaper article, trying to make sense of it.

52-year-old man. Stuck his head out the window. Window fell shut on him and the glass nearly took his head off. Freak accident.

Stunned, his eyes traveled further down the article and his breath caught.

Coincidentally, the article read, the dead man's brother had died just two days before. He'd died in his car. Asphyxiated.

Exactly as Sam had dreamed it two night ago.

"Sam?" Dean was beside him now. "Sammy, what's going on?"

"I. . ." Sam looked apprehensively at his father, then held out the newspaper. "I dreamed that." His voice shook. "I dreamed it. I saw it all."

ΩΩΩ

John read the article out loud. Dean stood behind Sam, hands resting on his brother's trembling shoulders.

When he'd finished reading, John lowered the paper and stared at Sam for a long moment. "The details match your dream?" he asked finally. " _Exactly_?"

Sam nodded jerkily. "Both of them."

Frowning, John glanced back at the article. "What, the suicide, too?"

"It wasn't suicide! He was trapped in the car and couldn't get out!"

Dean's hands tightened on his shoulders and Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "It wasn't suicide," he repeated.

After another long pause, John looked at Dean. "Did you know about this?" he asked sharply

Dean flushed.

Before he could answer, Sam protested, "Dean didn't know – _I_ didn't know! I thought they were just dreams!"

"Dad, we didn't –"

"Boys. _Enough_."

John looked down at the ruins of their now very cold breakfast. His hands mechanically smoothed out the crumpled newspaper, folding it neatly as he tried to think.

"Dad?" Sam's tone was uncertain, no small amount of fear in his face.

John looked at him blankly. Then, in one smooth, swift movement, he dropped the paper and was up, pulling Sam to his feet and into a reassuring hug. "It's okay, Sammy. We'll figure it out."

Sam returned the hug with a heartfelt sigh of relief. " _Dad_."

John's gaze met Dean's over Sam's head.

Eyes dark with worry, Dean nodded to his father, and laid a comforting hand on Sam's back.

"Dad's right, Sammy. We'll figure it out."


	14. FREEDOM UNDER THE SKIN

Max watched as the knife wove through the air. Clockwise, then counter, it leaped, spun, twisted. Faster, faster, the blade his dance, his future. His peace.

And finally, after all these years, his choice.

He could hear his stepmother crying downstairs.

Stupid cow. What was she crying about? She hadn't liked his father, or his uncle, any more than he had. Any more than she liked Max.

The knife came to his call, hovered before him, offered itself, blade sparkling in the early morning sunlight.

Screw it. Let her cry.

She'd have something real to cry about, pretty damned soon.


	15. On the Flip Side

The morning was overcast and cold, heavy sleet keeping most people off the road.

John, as usual, was impervious to bad weather. His only concession to the icy conditions was leaving the Impala at the motel and packing all three of them into his truck.

Now, sitting in the front seat of his big truck on the quiet suburban street, he looked searchingly at Sam.

"You get why you can't come in?"

Sam nodded, resigned. He didn't _like_ it, but he got it. No civilian was gonna buy him as a cop. Some kinda freakin' Hardy Boy, maybe. "No sweat, Dad."

John nodded approvingly. "Good boy." He jerked his head at Dean, stepped out of the truck and slammed the door.

Dean started to follow, then hesitated, studying his little brother's face. "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, shrugged.

Dean looked after their dad, who'd paused on the driveway and was looking back at them. Trying for a little distraction, he grinned and waggled his eyebrows teasingly at Sam. "You like this suit on me, baby?"

Sam's eyes darkened. "You know I do.'

"Dean!" John called impatiently.

With another flirty grin, Dean jumped out of the truck and trotted after their father.

Sam's eyes followed him.

Dean _did_ look good in that suit. He looked good in _anything_. Sam's lips quirked. Dean looked even better in nothing at all.

He watched as Dean caught up with John at the porch. The big man knocked on the front door of the house, waited a minute or so, then knocked again.

Five seconds later there was a scream from inside the house that Sam could hear from inside the truck. Two seconds after that, John kicked open the door to the house and he and Dean ran inside, guns drawn.

"Shit!" Sam jumped out of the truck and ran toward the house. Just as he reached the porch, there was another shrill scream from inside and the front door slammed shut.

He tried the door. Locked. He could hear a woman sobbing inside, but he couldn't hear Dean or John, nothing but the woman.

Heart pounding, he jumped off the porch and peeked into the front window, careful to keep low. It was hard to see much through the curtain. There was a woman curled up on the carpet under the window and, a few feet away from her, a young man was pacing back and forth. Sam couldn't see his father, but Dean was backed up against a wall with his hands up, his gun on the floor beside him.

Sam took a shaky breath and tried to think.

Okay, the woman was probably Mrs. Miller. Kid had to be the son – Mack? Matt? Whatever his name was, he didn't seem to have a gun, so why was Dean just standing there?

Wait, there was something – what the hell?

Something was hovering in the air in front of Dean!

Sam squinted, trying to figure out what he was looking at. After a moment his brain caught up with his eyes and his mouth fell open.

A knife, there was a _knife_ hanging in the air right in front of Dean! No one was holding it, it was just _hanging_ there, all by itself!

As Sam watched, his brother moved, just barely, maybe it was just the thought of moving, but the young man shouted, and the knife moved even closer to Dean, barely an inch from his right eye now.

Sam abandoned the window and ran around the side of the house. Squeezing past a couple of trash cans and an old Schwinn, he scrambled up and over a fence and dropped into the backyard. It held nothing but short-mown grass and a few lawn chairs clustered around a weather-beaten barbecue.

Yanking his gun from his jacket pocket, he went to the back door, breathing a sigh of relief when the knob turned. Listening, hearing nothing, he pushed it open and stepped into an empty kitchen. It was neat and clean, and burdened with a heavy cow motif.

Of the two doors in the kitchen, one led to the basement, the other to a long hall with a couple of closed doors and an entryway which had to lead to the front room. Sam could hear the boy's voice loud over the woman's sobs.

"She knew what they were doing! They broke my arm and she told the doctor I fell down the basement stairs!"

The woman's reply was a muffled litany of sobs as Sam stole down the hall and looked cautiously into what once had probably been a very comfortable living room. It was a wreck now. A big leather couch was toppled onto its side, a couple of broken lamps lay on the floor, and a large flat-screen television dangled sideways on the far wall, a jagged crack running across the wide screen.

The woman lay on the floor where he'd last seen her, sobs wracking her, hands covering her face.

Very cautiously, he looked further in.

 _Dad_. He was lying on his stomach just beyond the couch, unconscious or dead. There was blood on the floor around him. A lot of it.

The boy was pacing back and forth in front of Dean, muttering to himself. It sounded like he was trying to talk himself out of killing Dean. Or talk himself into it, Sam wasn't sure which, he was pretty incoherent.

The woman's crying started to get louder. The boy charged over to her and jerked her up by the hair, ignoring her wail of pain. "Shut up!"

She didn't stop crying.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

He pulled her hands away from her face and slapped her, but she just closed her eyes and kept on crying. Sam saw that the boy was crying now as well.

He suddenly remembered the boy's name.

Max.

"Why didn't you stop them?" Max choked out through sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she wailed

He flushed crimson. "You're not sorry! You're just afraid!"

Breathing hard, he let her fall back to the floor. He turned back towards Dean and raised an imperative hand. Dean's gun rose up and flew straight into Max's hand. He held it clumsily.

"Who are you?" he demanded, stepping close to Dean.

"Police." Dean's eyes flicked over to John's motionless form. "You're in some deep shit, kid."

"Police?" Max's shoulders slumped. He looked helplessly around the wrecked living room. "Why did you -" He stopped. "It doesn't matter. She's the last one."

"Damn it!" Dean tried to ignore the knife trembling in front of him. "You can't kill your own mother!"

Max glared at him. "She's not my mother! She's my _stepmother_! _My_ mom died when I was a baby!" He pointed to the weeping woman. "She's _nothing_."

"Whatever she is, whatever she's done, your mom wouldn't want you to do this!" Dean said with certainty.

Max froze. For a moment Sam thought Dean had found the key to stopping the boy.

Then Max said bitterly, "Why not! I killed her, too. Just ask my dad!" He gave a sob that turned into bitter spiraling laughter. "Oh, wait! You can't!"

"What do you mean?" Dean was confused and looked it. "You said you were just a baby."

"I dunno." Max's laughter died. He wiped tears from his exhausted face. "There was a fire in my nursery when I was about six months old. My mom died. Maybe if she hadn't. . ." His voice trailed off. "Doesn't matter. Not anymore."

At the boy's words, Dean blanched. Then a sudden movement caught his eye and he saw Sam standing in the archway, staring at Max as if he held all the secrets of the universe.

Max followed Dean's gaze. With a startled gasp he leveled his gun at Sam.

Sam ignored it. He put his own gun back into his pocket. "Your mom died in a fire when you were six months old?" he asked urgently. "In your nursery?"

"What?" Max looked frantically back and forth between the two strangers. "Why do you - yes!"

"My name is Sam Winchester. My mom died when I was six months old. There was a fire in my nursery." Every word was carefully enunciated.

The two boys stared at each other.

"Bullshit." Max said uncertainly.

"No."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

Max hesitated, then lowered his gun. "Did your dad beat you, too?"

Sam shook his head.

Max's mouth twisted. "You're lucky," he said bitterly.

Sam couldn't really argue. No matter how fucked up his life had been, and was, his father had never once beaten him. "That's my brother," he said instead, nodding at Dean.

Max looked surprised. "Not a cop?"

"No."

A sudden thought came to Max and he looked to where John lay unconscious. "Who's he?"

"That's my dad."

There was some definite hostility in Max's eyes then, directed right at John.

"He's never hurt me," Sam said quickly. "Or my brother, either."

Angry, skeptical, Max stared at John for a more few seconds, judging, weighing. "Why are you guys here?" he said finally.

Sam hesitated. "Because I dreamed about your dad and your uncle."

"What?"

"When they died," Sam clarified reluctantly.

So many emotions flitted over Max's mobile face that Sam couldn't even begin to parse them all. The boy slowly walked across to stand above his stepmother, who lay silent, eyes open now and watching him.

Sam followed.

"Did you dream about her?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet."

Max's face darkened "You want to know why she has to die?"

The woman didn't make a sound, but she seemed to get a little smaller.

Max lifted the front of his shirt, eyes fixed on his stepmother's face. "This is why."

As the shirt rose above Max's ribs, Sam's eyes widened. He bit back a gasp at the ugly mottled bruising that covered the boy's torso, monstrous patches of black, blue and purple. Some of them looked old, some quite recent.

Max tried to smile. "You understand, right?"

Sam looked down at Max's stepmother. It was not a pleasant look.

Against the wall, Dean said urgently, "Sammy, whatever these bastards did to him, it doesn't give him the right to kill them."

Sam's gaze jerked around to his brother. He looked surprised, as if he had forgotten for a moment that Dean was there.

Max didn't seem to have heard him at all. He was too busy staring down at his stepmother.

For her part, at Dean's words she seemed to have lost most of her fear and all her common sense. Struggling up to a sitting position, she glared at Max through tear-swollen eyes. "You killed Jim?"

Max stared down at her. Then he smiled. It was a very ugly smile.

"You're a monster!" she hissed. "You wait, you just _wait_ until I tell!"

"This is your fault!" Sam stood beside Max and glared down at Mrs. Miller. "You should have protected him! You should've loved him!"

"Love?" The woman's pinched face looked with revulsion at Max. "Who the hell could love _that_?"

Face twisted, Max raised the gun. Sam grabbed his arm. "Max, no! You don't have to do this. "You can come with –"

 _BLAM_!

Red blossomed on Max's breast and he cried out in shock, falling against Sam. The gun fell to the floor. Stunned, Sam looked across to where his father lay and saw John fall back onto the carpet, gun still in his hand.

"Sam..." Max's eyes were wide and wondering. "Sam?"

Behind them, the knife holding Dean hostage fell to the floor.

Dean surged forward. Yanking his brother away from Max, he scooped the gun up from the floor and pointed it at the boy.

"Dean, don't!" Sam cried desperately. "Don't!"

Face grim, Dean said, "He's not safe, Sammy."

"It's not his fault!" Tears starting down his cheeks, Sam wrenched away from his brother and put his arms around Max, blocking Dean's shot.

Max smiled at Sam. He looked almost happy. Then his eyes went to his stepmother. As swift as thought, the knife rose from the floor and zipped through the air. With a nasty _thunk_ , it hit the woman in the eye and pierced through to her brain.

As she slumped to the floor, a shocked expression on her face, Max's eyes met Sam's one last time. Then he quietly folded to the floor and was gone.

ΩΩΩ


	16. REFLECTIONS IN A BITTER EYE

Irritated, Bobby slammed down the hood of the Mustang and rubbed his hands together against the chill in the garage.

This damned car spent more time in his garage than it did in its owner's and he was sick of looking at it.

Last time it had been all four brake pads. Now it was the transmission. Damned thing needed a complete re-haul. He might even have to replace it. Of course, the way that idiot Halvorsen rode the gear shift, it was only a matter of time before the car was back again.

Damned fool ought to sell the car and start using one of those ride sharing apps. Not that Bobby had the first clue how those worked.

He strode toward the garage door. One thing he knew for damned sure was he wouldn't be invoicing the man. Last year it had taken Halvorsen six months to pay up. Money _in hand_ this time, or he could whistle for his damned car.

Stepping out into the snow-covered yard, Bobby slid the garage door shut and considered his options.

It was only 4:30. He could put in an hour or so on Lucy Trout's old Chevelle. Or he could pull the tires on the totaled Nova he'd towed in last week, see if any were worth saving.

On the _other_ hand, he'd had that ribeye marinating in the fridge since this morning. Stick that in the oven long enough to kill the cow, he'd be a happy man.

A snowflake landed on his nose, followed by another, and then another. A few seconds later, the air was thick with them. Bobby sighed.

Ribeye it is. Stomach growling in anticipation, he started for the house.

The deep rumble of an engine stopped him halfway across the yard. Two vehicles were coming up the drive. He didn't know the black GMC in front, couldn't see the driver through the tinted windshield, but he sure as hell recognized the black Impala growling close behind it.

All thoughts of a bloody steak, a bottle of Jack and a good book fled under Bobby's fierce scowl.

What _exactly_ about fuck off did John Winchester not understand?

The GMC came to a jerking halt a few feet in front of him. When the engine cut off, the driver, a faint shadow behind the windshield, did not emerge.

The Impala pulled to a stop beside the truck. A haggard-looking young man climbed out and looked at him over the top of the car with an uncertain smile. "Hey, Bobby."

Bobby's eyes narrowed and then his scowl changed to a wide smile. "Son-of-a-bitch! Dean!"

Dean cast a quick glance at the truck, then gestured into the back seat of the Impala. "I know you told Dad not to come back, but…"

Fucking John. Glaring at the truck, Bobby started forward. "Is your brother hurt?"

"What? Oh, no, Sammy's okay." Dean looked over at the truck again. He started to say something but cut himself off as Bobby stomped up beside him.

Bobby opened the rear door of the Impala and peered inside.

John Winchester looked sourly back at him from underneath a cocoon of blankets. "Singer." His voice, though weak, still made it very clear how he felt about the situation.

Bobby's lip curled. "Winchester." He turned to Dean. "What's wrong?"

"Knife. I did what I could, but –" Dean shrugged, helpless. "He won't go to a hospital."

"Course he won't," Bobby said sardonically.

John snorted. That started him coughing which led to some pained cursing. At the end of it he lay there with his eyes shut and teeth clenched, sweat covering his face even in the cold.

Dean looked at Bobby, almost as pale as his father. The older man patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Don't worry, kid. Goddamned jarhead's too mean to die. Let's get him into the house."

ΩΩΩ

Sam managed to hold it in until Dean and Bobby disappeared into the house with John. Then he pushed the truck door open, leaned out and emptied his stomach onto the ground, a nasty combination of coffee and bile.

When he was sure his legs would hold him up, he slid to the ground, kicked some snow over his mess and trudged toward the house.

He didn't go inside, just sat down on the porch and stared drearily into the sky. He didn't really feel the cold. His body and mind were too exhausted from the wheel his brain had been running on since they left Saginaw.

For most of the drive, he'd been thinking of Max, trying to decipher the look on the dead boy's face as he lay on the floor. He'd finally figured it out.

It had been relief. Max had _wanted_ to die. If John hadn't shot him, he'd probably have killed himself. The abuse he'd suffered over the years had overloaded him to the point that once his family was dead, he didn't have anything to stick around for.

Sam shuddered, thinking of Alice Miller's ruined face, but he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for her. She'd deserved what she got.

And Max? What had _he_ deserved?

He'd murdered three people. Unforgivable in most people's eyes. Beyond that, he'd severely injured John; his father and brother weren't the forgive-and-forget type.

Still.

Elbows on knees, Sam stared bitterly at the ground. If only they'd found out about Max sooner, they might have been able to do something. He didn't know what, exactly, but _something_.

What had been the point of his stupid dreams, anyway? It's not like they gave him the time to stop what was happening! Why hadn't they come to him a month ago, _six_ months ago?

Come to that, why hadn't anyone outside the family noticed how Max was being treated? Why had no one _helped_?

Life sucked. That was the long and short of it. Life fucking _sucked_.

He sat for a long time, brooding. When a hand unexpectedly touched his shoulder, he jumped up, almost taking a header off the porch.

"Whoa!" Dean grabbed Sam, steadying him. "You okay?"

"Sure." Sam's face heated, embarrassed. "How's Dad?"

Dean's grin was wry. "He should be okay. So long as there's no infection. And Bobby doesn't shoot him."

"We could always hide Bobby's shotgun," Sam offered.

They stood for a while, not speaking, staring up into the darkening, snow-filled sky. Then, without a word, the brothers moved into a tight hug; the embrace a combination of comfort, relief and a vast uncertainty of what lay before them.

Finally, shivering, Dean stepped back. "Let's go inside. I'm freezing." His nose wrinkled. "Besides, you need a shower."

"We both do." Sam looked down at himself, and grimaced. He didn't have a lot of clothes, but these were stiff with blood, past saving. "I'll go get our stuff."

Dean nodded. He hesitated. "Sammy - we got a lot to talk about."

Sam's face stilled. He looked away.

Dean put his arms around Sam's stiff frame, held him close. "We got a lot to talk about," he repeated softly. "But not now, baby. Not now."

Sam stood woodenly for a moment more in Dean's arms, then suddenly sagged against him, eyes starting to burn.

 _Not now._

ΩΩΩ


	17. CIRCLING THE WAGONS

John closed his eyes and tried to think. Max, that poor crazy kid, his mother had died like his Mary? What the hell did that mean for his son? My God, Sam...

"Dad?"

It was a small voice, barely recognizable as Sam's.

"Dad!" Dean.

John opened his eyes to see his boys staring at him. Sam was wide-eyed and white-faced, clearly scared out of his mind about what his father would say. Dean, shoulder to shoulder with his brother, had more anger than apprehension in his face.

"Sam." John kept his voice calm. "Son. Is it just the dreams?"

Confused, Sam looked at his brother, then back to John. "I don't …"

"He wants to know if you can move things with your mind, like Max did." Dean scowled at John. He'd _promised_ Sam this conversation could wait! What, his father couldn't wait one damned night to interrogate –

"Pull your horns in, Dean," John said wearily. "I need to know."

Dean bristled. He started to retort, but when Sam put a hand on his arm, he reluctantly subsided.

The little color that had been in Sam's face was now gone. "It's just the dreams, Dad. I promise."

"Let me know if that changes, okay, Sammy?" John held out an unsteady hand. Sam grabbed onto it like a lifeline and Dean looked marginally less angry.

John released Sam's hand and closed his eyes. He heard a few low murmurs and the sound of retreating footsteps. At the sound of the door opening, a sudden thought jolted him, and his eyes flew open. "Boys!"

The two turned back.

John's tone was uncompromising. "Don't tell Singer."

ΩΩΩ

Bobby turned off the gas on the stove and glanced over his shoulder at the two boys hovering at the kitchen door. "Hungry?"

Dean nodded vigorously. Sam's nod was a little more equivocal, but he followed his brother to the table.

Bobby smiled to himself. It was nice, cooking for these two again after all these years. Maybe, if they were still here tomorrow, he'd chop up that rib-eye still marinating in the fridge, put together some fajitas.

Filling a couple of bowls with some his infamous Hellfire Chili, he set them down in front of the boys and nodded to the plate of cornbread in the center of the table. "Help yourselves."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean eagerly took a couple of pieces of cornbread, slathered them heavily with butter, and handed one to his brother.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam echoed.

"No problem. I always have chili and cornbread in the freezer. You never know who's gonna stop by." Bobby's chuckle was wry. "Never thought it would be John Winchester, though."

John's boys grinned at each other.

Dinner conversation was sporadic, and mostly hunter news. A vampire nest that Pastor Jim Murphy burned out in January. Caleb Green, down in Mexico hunting Chupacabra. A zombie infestation in nearby Sioux Falls that Bobby himself had taken care of.

One thing they didn't talk about was what had brought the Winchesters to his door.

Bobby knew it was more than their father getting knifed. There were other hunters they could've gone to for help, especially with how John felt about _him_. After all, the last time John Winchester had darkened Bobby's doorstep, he'd left at the business end of a shotgun.

Sighing, Bobby pushed his empty bowl away and stared moodily into space.

Something was going on and whatever it was, it was bad. Dean was damned good at hiding, but Sam was looking more stressed than any sixteen-year-old had a right to. Boy hadn't said much during dinner, but he damned sure looked like he _wanted_ to say something.

John had probably told them to keep their mouths shut. God, what a jackass -

"Bobby?"

Startled, he looked across the table at Dean, who was looking at him worriedly. "Sorry, what?"

Dean hesitated. "I was just saying that me and Sam will take care of the dishes."

"Sure, thanks." Bobby pulled himself together and rose from the table. "I'll check on your dad, then I have some research to do."

The boys nodded and started clearing up. Bobby headed for the stairs.

Research.

Yeah.

Bobby knew that from a conversation he'd "overheard" when they first arrived that the Winchesters had been in Saginaw right before coming to his place. He didn't like snooping, but he didn't have much of a choice. He had a feeling that whether John wanted it or not, the Winchesters were going to need his help.

ΩΩΩ

Belly full and as content as he could be for the moment, Dean crawled into bed and pulled up the covers. Snuggling up close to his brother, he laid a kiss on the sensitive spot under his ear.

Sam shuddered in arousal, then hastily shifted away. "Don't start something you can't finish!"

"Who says I can't finish it?" Dean murmured, tugging Sam back against him.

Sam snorted. "Oh yeah?" he challenged. "In Bobby's house? With _Dad_ two doors away?"

Dean laughed but didn't let him go. "Yeah, okay, but nothing says I can't hold you."

Sam relented. They lay quiet.

There was a click as the heater turned on, warm air billowing into the room. Dean sighed contentedly. He was just drifting off when he felt Sam ease away and sit up.

Dean pushed himself up on his elbows. "What's up?" he said sleepily.

"Nothing." Sam didn't look at him. "Go to sleep."

"Seriously?" Dean yawned. "When has that _ever_ worked for you?"

Sam sighed. "God, you're so – okay, you know what, fine!" He switched on the bedside lamp and turned a determined face to his brother. "I want to tell Bobby what's going on."

Dean wasn't surprised. He'd had thoughts along the same lines, but Dad…

"I know Dad said not to," Sam rushed on in a preemptive strike, "but Bobby knows a lot, he might be able to help. He's got – he's got _resources_."

"Sammy –"

"Dean, come on! Did you see his face? He was afraid. Dad doesn't know what's happening to me and he's _afraid_."

"Sam -" Dean reached for him.

"No!" Angry now, Sam jumped out of bed and glared down at him. "You can't just hug me and make it all better. We need _help."_

Not wanting to escalate things, Dean stayed in bed. "We can't do anything about it tonight. Come back to bed. We'll talk to Dad in the morning.

Thrumming with tension, Sam said, "And if he says no?"

Dean didn't answer, but Sam read the truth on his face easily enough. "You won't go against him. You never do."

"That's not fair!" Dean protested. "We gotta keep this to ourselves. You know how hunters are. If they find out what's going on, they might think –"

"What? They might think I'm a monster? _Bobby_ might think I'm a monster?"

"Not Bobby, no. But there's a lot of hunters out there who shoot first and ask questions later." Dean held out his hand. "Come back to bed, baby."

Sam hesitated, hovering between anger and frustration. After a few moments, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Turning off the light, he climbed back into bed.

Neither of them got much sleep that night.

ΩΩΩ


	18. HELL IS A WILD CARD

Gordon Walker had never been much of a sentimentalist, even before he killed his sister. Practical, rational, pragmatic. He'd always figured that's why he was still alive.

When his sister had been turned into a vamp, he could've gone all weepy and tearful, but that might've gotten him killed. Or turned. Screw that noise. Person turns into a vamp, you kill 'em, even if it's your baby sister that you mostly raised yourself.

Given his history, vamps had always been Gordon's normal hunt of choice, but something about Max Miller was tweaking hell out of his hunter instincts.

According to the cops, the boy had been a nutcase. Plain and simple. They didn't know if he'd killed his entire family or if - overwrought by his father and uncle's deaths - he'd simply killed his stepmother and then himself.

Whatever. According to the authorities, the case was closed.

Thing was, Gordon thought, maybe not.

Reading the newspaper reports of what had happened, he'd gotten that funny itchy feeling at the back of his neck; the one that kept him on his toes when something supernaturally hinky was going on. He'd learned early on not to ignore that itch, so he'd hauled ass to Saginaw.

Now, thanks to his instincts, and Max Miller's nosy next door neighbor, he was starting to think he might be onto something.

Something big.

The neighbor, Grace Shaw, hadn't wanted to talk to him at first. She'd had a nasty look in her eye; one Gordon was very familiar with. He was pretty sure that if he hadn't had a badge, she would've flung the "n" word at him and shut the door in his face.

Badge trumps bigotry with most people, though. So now here he was, sitting in a tchotchke-choked living room that stank of booze, old woman and talcum powder, hoping she had something to share besides malicious gossip.

"That boy was trouble!" she said now, taking a long swallow of gin. "I could tell just looking at him!"

"He get into a lot of trouble with the police?" Gordon's voice was noncommittal, though he knew damned well the boy hadn't.

"Well, no," she admitted. "But any time I saw his mother, she was complaining about him. And after what I saw a couple weeks ago, I can't really blame her." She paused, studying her visitor.

"What did you see, Ms. Shaw?"

"You won't believe me!" she snapped, blowing out an angry breath. "The other cops didn't."

Gordon just waited.

She struggled with herself for a moment. Then, "I saw that boy in the garage, playing with the car, opening and closing the windows. He was _practicing_."

He frowned. "I don't understand, what –"

"He wasn't using his hands," she interrupted. "He was using his _mind_." She stared at him challengingly.

"He _what_?" Gordon leaned forward, threadbare club chair creaking beneath him.

Gratified he hadn't flat-out laughed at her, Grace nodded. "My bedroom window looks right into their garage. I sat and watched him for a good hour before he went back into the house. And then a few days later his daddy was dead, killed in that very garage!"

"And you told this to the police."

"They didn't believe me."

Would have been a miracle if they had, Gordon thought. He'd seen the police report. It hadn't said a word about this, only that she was considered to be an unreliable witness. He didn't really blame them. It was a crazy story. It didn't help that she'd been drunk on her ass during the interview.

Grace refilled her glass and took another swallow. "Don't know why I'd make something like that up," she muttered, tone resentful. "The boy was a nutcase, and the parents – well, like my daddy always said, you reap what you sow."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, they beat the _crap_ out of him," she said with relish. "Anytime I saw him he was covered with bruises. Saw him with a cast a couple of times."

He baited her gently. "You didn't tell the police _that_."

"None of my business." She glanced toward the television in the corner, a muted Dr. Phil whipping up his studio audience. "Are we done?"

He ignored her not-so-subtle hint. "So, what happened that day?"

"Wasn't over there, was I?" Her gaze shifted away from him, then quickly back. "First I knew was when the police showed up."

Gordon stared at her for a long moment; long enough that she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I really hate Michigan in winter, Ms. Shaw. And I don't like you any better. I want to leave. But for me to do that, you need to tell me the truth."

The woman's cheeks flushed with outrage. "I told you the truth! I got no –"

She cut herself off, eyes widening as Gordon casually drew his coat open, revealing the gun in his belt.

"You're a _cop_ , you can't threaten me like that!"

Enjoying the fear in her eyes, Gordon drew out his badge, dangling it in front of her. "This badge is garbage. I'm no more a cop than you are."

"Then you can get the hell out of here." She straightened, stiffening her spine. "You don't scare me."

"Don't mess with me." Gordon's smile was – not nice. "Tell me what I want to know, and you can go back to your nice quiet afternoon. Otherwise…" He trailed off, letting the woman draw her own conclusions.

"Fine!" She blew out an angry, albeit shaky, breath. "There was a man, all right? A man and two boys, in a black truck."

"Did you know them?"

"I never seen 'em before!" At his prodding gesture, she said, "I was watching T.V. and I saw them pull up." Grace waved toward the picture window facing the street.

"Describe them."

"Hell, I don't know!" Flustered, she wrinkled her brow. "He was probably about forty. Dark. The other two were young, no more than twenty. Young."

"What were they driving?"

"It was a GMC, the Sierra Grande." Getting a little of her nerve back, she sneered at him. "You think I don't know cars? I know that one! My husband had one. Died in it, in fact. Don't forget something like that."

"Anyone else with him?"

She looked confused. "My husband?"

Gordon stifled his impatience. "The man in the truck."

"Just the two boys," she said. "Him and one of them went to the front door. I heard a scream and they went bustin' in."

He waited. When she didn't continue, he prompted, "And then?"

"I closed the curtains and went back to my show," she answered sullenly. "I don't need no trouble."

"Why didn't you tell the police about them?"

"They stopped listening when I told them about the kid moving stuff with his mind." She wiped a nervous hand across her mouth. "Look, that's all I know. I don't know anything else."

Gordon's fingers stroked the pistol at his waist as he studied the woman. Then, with a curt nod, he got to his feet. Sixty seconds later he was out the door, in his car and on his way out of town.

He believed her. She'd told him all she knew. He was glad of it. His trigger finger had itched the whole time he was with the old bat.

There wasn't much more he could learn here, what with everyone involved being dead. He'd heard enough, though, to know something was cooking. He'd be keeping his eyes open.

He just hoped that when whatever it was popped, it wouldn't bring him back to freaking Michigan.


	19. A LITTLE BIT OF KINDA NORMAL

No one could hold a grudge like John Winchester.

Dean had talked to John, at him, with him, but it had been no use. None of his carefully thought out arguments made the slightest dent in John's armor. Bobby was not to be let in on the secret. It was too dangerous. Dean suspected that his father's refusal was because of his long-standing resentment over Bobby's child-rearing "advice" a few years before, not because he was really worried that Bobby would somehow let the secret out. Didn't matter. Whatever the reason, John was adamant. Bobby Singer was out of the loop.

Not long after that conversation, John had dragged himself out of bed and the whole Winchester clan out of Bobby's house.

So now here they were, heading to some random poltergeist sighting in Louisiana when they should be doing background on Max and his crazy town shit, researching the entire Miller clan and trying to find parallels between Max's family and theirs. They should be seeing if they could find any more teens whose moms had died the same way.

Damn it, they should be trying to find out what the hell was going on before this thing got away from them!

Dean realized he was grinding his teeth. Also, his foot was bearing down hard on the gas and the Impala was coming up fast on his dad's truck. Cursing under his breath, he eased up on the gas and let the truck draw ahead again, knowing his father would have noticed the erratic driving.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, his cell phone rang.

 _"You okay back there?"_

"Yeah, Dad," Dean said softly, with a wary look over at his sleeping brother. "Sorry."

 _"You sure? I want to make it as far as New Orleans tonight."_

"I'm fine, Dad."

 _"If you need to, wake your brother up, let him drive."_

Dean had nothing to say to that unlikely suggestion. Grunting, his father disconnected.

Beside him, Sam straightened up with a yawn and looked out the window. Lush vegetation lined the side of the road, unearthly in the flash of the Impala's headlights. "How much further?"

"Couple more hours," Dean answered shortly,

"I can drive for a while if you want to catch a few z's." Another yawn escaped.

Dean looked sideways at him.

Sam rolled his eyes. "One scratch on the fender. _One_ time! How am I supposed to get better if you never let me drive?"

Dean sighed. Kid had a point, but damn. It hadn't been all that long since his father had gifted him the Impala. He wasn't sure he was ready to risk her again.

"Yeah, all right," he said reluctantly. "But not tonight. It's dark and alligators have a habit of crossing the road on this stretch."

"Alligators?" Sam looked out the window. "No kidding!"

"Sure." Dean grinned at the eager look on Sam's face. "Dad almost sent one to Wally World last time we came through here."

Sam laughed, then went back to looking out the window. "I hope we see one."

"If we don't see one on the road, I can ask Dad if we can take a few hours to check out the alligator farm in Ponchatoula," Dean offered. "It's only about an hour outside New Orleans."

"An alligator _farm_?" Sam turned back to Dean, starting to frown. "What does that mean?"

"It's a family business. They do tours, sell gator meat, sell the heads. Tourist stuff," Dean answered. Attention on the road ahead, he missed the sound of Sam's sharply indrawn breath. "You know, me and Dad had a couple of alligator steaks once. Kinda tastes like a cross between chicken and rabbit, with maybe a little bit of frog legs thrown in –"*

" _What_ the _fuck_!"

Surprised, Dean looked over, taken aback by Sam's outraged expression. "What?"

"Alligators are on the endangered species list, Dean!" Sam said furiously. "How are those assholes getting away with that shit?"

"Hell, I don't know." Dean floundered. "Uh, maybe it's because they're farmed. You know, bred in captivity?"

Sam blew out an angry breath. "Like that makes it any better."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Dean ventured, "So, no stop at the alligator farm."

Sam snorted. After a couple of tense minutes, he said, _very_ nonchalantly, "You know what, we should stop. I've never seen an alligator before, except on T.V."

"Seriously?"

"Sure, it'll be fun." Sam's tone of voice was casually ingenuous and completely unbelievable.

Dean frowned. A horrible suspicion dawned, along with an image of open gates and hundreds of alligators making a mad dash to freedom. "Sammy, you wouldn't –"

"I wouldn't what?" Sam scowled, dropping the pretense. "Fucking alligator eaters."

Dean glanced over warily.

Sam smiled sweetly and fluttered his eyelashes.

Both boys burst out laughing.

Caught up in Sam's laughter, Dean almost didn't see the black form swooping in from the side of the road. Without even the time to curse, Dean jerked the wheel to the left, just missing an enormous owl. The spin of the wheel sent the Impala swerving wildly back and forth, halfway off the road before Dean managed to bring her to a jarring halt.

"Holy shit!" Dean gasped, almost choking on the adrenaline spiking through him

"Did we hit it?" Sam said anxiously. Not waiting for an answer, he jumped out of the car and started looking around. "I don't see it!"

Nerves still buzzing, Dean got out and joined his brother in the glare of the headlights. "I don't think so. Pretty sure he went into the trees on the other side." He looked up the road to where John's lights were disappearing around a bend. "Shit. Sammy, come on. Dad's gonna have my ass if we fall behind."

With a last look around, Sam obediently got back into the car. In a few minutes, they were back in place behind their father's truck, and Dean's cell phone was ringing.

Dean sighed, reaching for his cell on the seat between them.

Grinning, Sam got to it first. "Hey, Dad."

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

* I myself have never tasted alligator. Google rules.


	20. THE OTHER SHOE

There was a knock on the door. Putting the television on mute, Sam bounced off the bed and across to the door. "What's the matter?" he grinned, flinging it open. "Did you lose your – oh. Hey, Dad."

"You two ready to go?" John stalked inside and glanced around, looking very much the worse for wear after his night on the town. "Where the hell is your brother?" His gaze narrowed in on the muted television. "And what the hell is _that_?"

Red-faced, Sam hurried over and turned off the T.V., cutting off _Gilligan_ in mid-prat fall. "Dean went to get lunch."

"How long has he been gone? We need to get going."

"Only about twenty minutes," Sam answered defensively. "They're probably just busy."

John blew out an impatient breath. "Get your stuff packed so we're ready to go when he gets back. You two can eat in the car."

Nodding, Sam tried to hide his disappointment. This put paid to the alone-time he and Dean had been counting on. They hadn't had much of that lately.

Oh, well. There'd be other days. There was no use arguing with John when he was in this mood.

But still, why was his father in such a hurry? They'd already taken care of the poltergeist and, last he'd heard, John had decided to stick around New Orleans for a day or two.

Sam started to ask but changed his mind at the glare his father sent him. Instead, he pulled the duffels out of the closet and started packing, trying to ignore John as the man paced around the room.

They hadn't had time to totally unpack, so it didn't take long. Dean still wasn't back, and John was starting to look uneasy instead of just impatient.

"You stay here," he said finally. "I'll find him." His mouth twisted. "He's probably just holed up somewhere with a girl."

Sam said nothing to that, just watched his father climb into his big black bruiser of a truck and roar down the street. Then he pulled out his cell phone and called Dean again. His brother didn't answer.

Ω

John searched all afternoon and well into the night, calling back every couple of hours to see if Sam had heard anything.

"Did you two fight?" John asked when he finally came back around midnight.

Sam shook his head, trying not to show how frightened he was. "Even if we had, he wouldn't do this. You know that."

John said nothing. He agreed. But Dean on an angry bender was a hell of a better alternative than the dozen others he could think of. "Put your stuff in the truck. I'm going out to look again. I want you with me."

"But what if he comes back here?" Sam protested.

John just looked at him, then turned on his heel and walked out the door. After a moment, carrying their duffels, Sam reluctantly followed.

Ω

As much as Sam wanted to find Dean, wanted to find him unharmed, he wasn't looking forward to driving up and down the streets of New Orleans with his father.

John had been very short-tempered the last few days, his usually fairly moderate drinking increasing along with his temper. Sam knew why, of course. Sam's prophetic dreams, the screw-up in Saginaw with Max Miller – his father was totally strung out, waiting for the next disastrous shoe to drop. Hell, not just waiting for it. _Expecting_ it.

Sam understood. He was afraid to sleep sometimes, wondering if he would have another dream. If he didn't have Dean to talk to, if Dean didn't have him, they'd both have gone bonkers.

The problem was, John wouldn't talk. He'd just shut down or walk out, getting progressively more snappish, more impatient, more angry each day.

True, he'd never been the easiest man in the world to be around to begin with. But lately? If he wasn't the hardest, then he was cutting it pretty damned close.

Which is probably why, with all the conflicting emotions roiling through him, and the tension and alcohol wafting off of his father, Sam almost missed the Impala, parked in front of a bar just a few blocks from their motel.

Mouth dropping open, he gaped in disbelief, then shouted urgently, "Dad, stop!" He pointed to the black muscle car sitting outside a bar they'd just passed. "There! He's there!"

John growled. "I fucking _knew_ it!" He looked around in frustration. "There's nowhere to park." He continued on down the street. "We'll find somewhere to park and walk back."

"No, Dad, stop!" Sam flung open the door and hopped out as John hit the brakes with a curse. No way he was going anywhere without Dean, not even one block. What if the Impala was gone when they got back? What if Dean wasn't even inside? What if someone had stolen the car and Dean was lying somewhere hurt, or –

"Sam!" John roared. "Get your ass back in here!"

Sam looked back in at him. "I'll find him and keep an eye on him until you get back." Not waiting for an answer, he slammed the door and ran toward the bar.

There was a big, nasty-looking bouncer at the door, but there were so many people clogging the sidewalk, it didn't take much for Sam to get up close. He waited until the man was arguing with a trio of deeply inebriated women, then slipped around behind him and into the bar.

It was packed inside, smoky, rowdy, total party time, typical New Orleans, even outside of Mardi Gras. It seemed like everyone in the place was yelling, probably because otherwise it was impossible to be heard above the band, which was playing really bad rock.

Ignoring the surprised glances of several nearby patrons – he was clearly way too young to be in here - Sam stared around uncertainly. How was he supposed to find one man in the midst of all this chaos?

Turned out it wasn't all that hard. All he had to do was wait sixty seconds.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

Sam spun around with a gasp at the familiar voice, then stumbled back as a big bear of a man flew backward through the crowd, knocking down several people before landing at Sam's feet in an unconscious, graceless heap.

"Sammy!"

Green eyes sparkling, grin wide and mocking, Dean stood in front of him, a voluptuous redhead hanging drunkenly onto his arm.

"Dean, what…"

As Sam's halting words trailed off, Dean's eyes narrowed, turning flinty and cruel. His hand went down, and he grabbed onto the woman's mini-skirted ass, squeezing it. Hard, to judge by the squeal she let out.

Sam looked from Dean to the woman, and then back again. He couldn't speak, his pain and confusion so great he could scarcely breathe.

Chuckling, Dean bent over the woman and took her lipstick-smeared mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, then looked back at Sam, who was deathly pale. "Does it sting, little brother?" he asked in a low voice.

The band had gone quiet when the man flew across the floor; the sounds of the crowd dying down as everyone turned to watch the show. The big man hadn't stirred, though the people he'd knocked down on his way through were up and looking pissed. A bouncer was starting to make his way through the crowd toward them.

Giggling, the woman curled her arms around Dean, nuzzling under his ear. "C'mon, stud, let's get outta here," she slurred. "We'll have us some fun."

"Sure, baby, sure." Dean smirked when Sam flinched at the endearment. He stepped in close to his brother. "I'll be seeing _you_ later. _Baby_."

Then he winked. His eyes washed to obsidian black for one heart-stopping moment, then back to their familiar green.

With a final snort of amusement, Dean stalked away, pulling the woman along with him, just as the bouncer reached their little tableau.

Bone white and shaking, unable to believe what he'd seen, Sam ran after them through the crowd, spilling out the door onto the sidewalk just seconds after they exited. Dodging past the startled bouncer outside, he looked around for his father, but John was nowhere, _nowhere_ , and the Impala was already pulling out into traffic.

Frantic, Sam started to run into the street after them but was jerked to a halt when John stepped out of the shadows and grabbed his arm. "Sam, no!"

"Dad!" Eyes wide and terrified, Sam pointed after the Impala, already halfway down the block. "Dad! His eyes!" He could barely get the words out. "Dean's eyes, they were _black_!"

"Quiet!" John snapped.

The Impala was turning the corner now.

 _Dean_.

"Dean!"

Wrenching his arm out of his father's grasp, Sam ran out onto the street, but John was on him instantly, iron fingers digging into Sam's arm and pulling him back onto the crowded sidewalk. Ignoring his son's frantic struggles, he hauled him down the street to where he'd parked the truck and thrust him inside.

Once John was in the driver's seat, he didn't start the truck, didn't speak to Sam. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

When the call was answered, John said grimly, "I need your help, Singer. Dean's been possessed."

ΩΩΩ


	21. MEG

Yawning, Dean gave a dissatisfied curse and shoved the woman's limp body off the bed, ignoring the thud when she hit the floor. Humans weren't nearly so much fun when they stopped screaming.

That boy, though? Sam. Yeah. Sammy. He looked like he'd be all kinds of fun. Those big hazel eyes, those pretty lips. And, _man_ , his pain when he saw his brother hanging all over the woman? That had been fucking _sweet_.

He chuckled. Brothers _and_ lovers! That was some funny shit!

Rolling out of bed, he strolled nude across the room to the window and pulled the curtain back, scanning the parking lot and the street beyond. Still clear. Wouldn't be long, though, before the cavalry came riding to the rescue.

Ignoring the raspy, unsteady breathing of the woman on the floor, he pulled on his clothes and boots, checking the .45 to make sure it was loaded before tucking it into the holster under his arm. Not that he needed it, of course, but damn, loud noises and spraying blood was so much more fun than breaking necks!

Stepping out of the motel room, he shut the door and lit a cigarette, staring at the Impala. Time to dump this beast, pick up something shiny and red. Something that didn't have a tracker on it. Nice little Mustang, maybe.

He smirked. It would've been a treat to see the look on John Winchester's face when he saw what his precious son had done to the woman inside but fuck it.

He had other, tastier, fish to fry.

ΩΩΩ

Bobby pulled his Chevelle into the lot of the Circle-K, still open at nearly four in the morning.

Parking in the space next to John's truck, he watched as the big man got out of his truck and climbed in beside him. "John."

John's tone was curt. "Thanks for coming."

"No need to thank me." Bobby noted the tightness of the man's mouth, the look of grim determination and the clenched fists. "Where is he?"

"Tracker puts the Impala at a motel half a mile down." John fell silent for a moment, watching as a customer left the glare of the convenience store, climbed into a nearby SUV and drove away. "I did a reconnoiter about fifteen minutes ago. It's still there."

"Is the woman still with him?"

John's mouth got even tighter. "So far as I know."

"How the hell did you know to put a tracker on the car, anyway?"

"I don't know." Irritated, John shook his head. "Instinct? I just knew something was wrong. Dean has his faults, but he wouldn't have gone off like that. He wouldn't leave his brother."

"How's Sam doing?" Bobby looked at the truck's tinted windows.

"I left him in New Orleans." At Bobby's surprised look, John snapped, "Sam's fine where he is. It's Dean we need to focus on."

Bobby held his tongue. Maybe John was right. The boys were close. Seeing Dean like that had to have been pretty hellish. Besides, if something went wrong, the last thing they needed was the damned thing jumping from Dean into Sam.

"Did you bring it?" John asked impatiently.

Bobby nodded, hooking his thumb into the back seat and John twisted around, letting out an approving grunt when he saw the box.

"Good." John sat still for a moment. After a moment, he closed his eyes and blew out a deep breath. "God _damn_ it, Bobby…"

"John." Singer grasped his old friend's arm, squeezed it. "We _will_ get him back."

ΩΩΩ

Sam sat in the middle of the bed, arms wrapped tight around his knees, more frightened than he'd ever been in his life.

All he could see was the evil staring out at him from Dean's eyes. All he could feel was the pain of his heart breaking as his brother walked away from him.

His cell phone, on the bed beside him, rang. _Bad to the Bone_. Dean's ring tone.

Hands shaking, Sam picked it up.


	22. RUBY, RUBY

_"Stay there, Sammy. If you leave, or if you call your old man, you'll never see your brother again."_

The demon's threat ringing in his ears, Sam desperately tried to figure out how he could kill the thing without killing Dean.

He'd done some reading on demons at Bobby's house, but that had been a few years back. He didn't remember much. Holy water, that was one, but that would probably just piss it off, even if he had some.

There'd been something about salt, but he couldn't really remember what. And there'd been a book with very detailed sigils and traps, but there was no way he could recreate any of them. It had just been too damned long.

Not for the first time, he resented his father for keeping him away from Bobby. More specifically, Bobby's library. Damn it, his father needed to stop being so stubborn and start working and sharing information with other hunters. It was the only way they could survive, much less win this war.

Sam sighed. He needed to stop stalling and call Dad, no matter what the demon had threatened; if for no other reason than Dean would want him to.

Before he got farther than reaching for his cell, someone knocked on the door and Sam sucked in a startled breath.

Dean, already?

Not Dean. It was a stranger, a woman in her early twenties. She was as slim as a reed, dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, with long, blond hair and sharp, pretty features.

Sam frowned, confused, sure he'd never seen her before. Maybe she had the wrong room?

Starting to look impatient, she knocked again, harder this time. And then again, after a minute or so, now looking _really_ impatient.

Sam stepped away from the window. It didn't look like she was going to give up any time soon and he needed her out of here, _now_. Cursing under his breath, he went to the door. The moment he turned the knob, the woman kicked the door open, hitting him in the face, sending him staggering back.

"Hi, Sam." She stepped inside, and the door slammed shut.

Before he had time to do more than jerk out his gun, she was on him, sweeping his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the worn carpet. Then she kicked him in the arm, hard.

The pain of the blow was overwhelming. Sam cried out as he felt it, _heard_ it, break.

"Say goodnight, Sam."

Plucking his gun up from where it had fallen to the floor, she hit him in the head with it, and he was out.

Ω

Dean walked quickly toward the motel. No way John Winchester would've had time to get back here yet, but still, best to grab the kid and get the fuck out, just in case.

Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and gave a yell of surprise when he was grabbed and catapulted across the room to smash against the wall and fall hard to the floor.

"Fuck!" The demon gaped in surprise at the black-eyed blond glaring down at him. "What the hell are you're doing!"

"That's _my_ question, asshole!" she said angrily, stalking toward him. "You know damned well the Winchesters are off limits!"

Scoffing, the demon rose to his feet. Looking past her, he saw Sam lying unconscious on the room's double bed. He smirked. "Fuck you. Why should I pass up a good time just because someone higher up the food chain has a hard-on for the Winchesters?"

She swore. "You _stupid_ piece of – ah, screw this, I don't have time for your shit." Slashing her hand through the air, the blond sent the demon slamming against the wall again.

This time he stayed there, feet dangling just above the floor and arms wide-spread. Spluttering with outrage, he tried to free himself, his eyes going wide when he found himself unable to do so.

The little blonde blew out an angry breath. "Do you really think it's just me you've got to deal with? You have _no_ idea what's at stake here." Lunging forward, she clamped a slim hand around his throat and squeezed until his eyes bulged. _"Look at me!"_

Confused and starting to think that he _might_ have made a mistake, the demon looked into her eyes. After a long moment, he paled and swallowed hard.

She smiled. It wasn't pleasant; more like the smile of a lioness about to clean her teeth with the bones of her last victim.

"You got it now, stupid? Are we clear?"

He nodded frantically. When she released him, he cringed back from her, thoroughly cowed.

She stabbed a finger at the bed, and Sam. "Now, park Dean Winchester next to his brother and vacate the freaking premises!"

Ω

"It'll be okay, John," Bobby said, as the truck exited the highway and entered the outskirts of New Orleans.

John didn't answer. Everything in his life had been crap for so long, he had no idea how to respond to Bobby's ludicrous statement.

Did okay mean that he'd only be losing one of his sons today? Or did it mean that they'd both be dead but, mercifully, unpossessed?

Maybe okay meant that they'd both be alive, but missing, and John would be spending the rest of his life looking for them.

Keeping his eyes on the road, John was careful not to drive too fast as they had zero time to waste explaining the unexplainable to a traffic cop. He ignored the other vehicles around him, ignored the people crowding the sidewalks and the familiar sights and sounds of a city that he'd once loved.

Mary had loved it, too, he remembered, the few times they'd come here together. The stately old mansions and the street musicians; the innumerable psychics, both real and not. She'd particularly loved the reverence and revelry of the wonderful New Orleans-style funeral processions.

John didn't like New Orleans anymore, he didn't think of it as a fun place to visit. Of course, since he'd lost Mary, he didn't think of any place as fun. That wasn't his life, not anymore.

"John?"

But just why was this his life, anyway? Was he paying for the sins of a past life?

Maybe he was cursed. That made as much sense as anything else.

"John!" Bobby said sharply.

John blinked and realized that they were parked in front of the motel room where he'd left Sam. He didn't remember parking. He barely remembered the drive.

Not daring to look at Bobby, he jumped out of the truck. He strode to the door of the motel room, reached for the door, and froze.

It was open. Just a few inches, but - open.

A feeling of black dread came over him. A fear so all-encompassing it was all he could do not to pull his gun and shoot himself in the head.

Bobby tried to move past, but John held him back. After a few seconds, he steeled himself, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

In the darkened room, he could see his sons lying on the bed. Neither was moving.

A little moan slipped past John's lips. He couldn't move. All he could do was stare at the end of his life.

Bobby slipped past him and hurried to the bed, bending over the still, silent forms.

After a moment, he raised his head. "John, they're alive."


	23. THAT LAST STRAW

The stink of sulfur in the room was unmistakable.

John passed a few aspirin to his eldest son and watched as he swallowed them down with some water. "How do you feel?"

Dean didn't answer. He looked haggard and hollow-eyed; clearly not running on all four cylinders.

"Do you remember anything?"

Dean shook his head, then looked at his father, as alarmed as his exhaustion would allow. "What happened?"

John hesitated, then, "Nothing we can't fix."

Dean did not look reassured, but he was distracted when the bathroom door opened and Sam, his right arm in a rough splint, shuffled out, supported around the waist by a grim-faced Bobby.

"Sammy?" Dean lurched off the bed, then, dizzy, steadied himself with a hand against the wall. "Shit! Sammy, you okay?"

Face flushed and slick with sweat, smelling faintly of vomit and something sickeningly sweet, Sam mumbled something incoherent. Bobby kept him upright long enough to get him to the bed and lowered him onto it, careful not to jar the splinted arm.

In moments, the boy was asleep.

Dean hovered anxiously over the bed, not quite daring to touch his brother. "Is he okay?"

"He took a couple knocks to the head, and some asshole dosed him with chloroform," Bobby growled.

Dean's fingers glided, hesitated, just above Sam's splinted arm. "What —"

"The arm's broken," Bobby said shortly.

Dean was horrified. "What are we waiting for? We have to get him to the hospital!"

"No hospital." John sighed. "Dean, use your head. If we take him in there all doped up on chloroform, how long before they call the cops?"

"We can find some place that won't call the cops," Dean protested.

"We'll get the arm set after he sleeps off the chloroform." Bobby looked Dean up and down and didn't seem to like what he saw. "You should get some rest, too."

"I'm _fine_ –" Dean said defensively. He looked at his brother and his face twisted. "Besides, how the _hell_ am I supposed to sleep when Sam –"

"You'll rest so you can be there for Sam when he wakes up," Bobby interrupted. "He's gonna be in some pain once he gets past the chloroform."

Dean started to protest, but a yawn cut him off. He glared at John. "This is _bullshit_."

John looked away.

" _Damn_ it!" Dean blew out an angry breath and stared at his sleeping brother. After a few tense seconds, he turned a stiff back to his father and lay down on the bed, curling up next to Sam.

Soon he, too, was asleep.

Bobby tucked a blanket around the boys. Giving their father an assessing look, he sat down on a nearby chair and pulled a worn flask out of his pocket.

"Drink?"

When John didn't answer, Bobby shrugged and took a healthy swig of whiskey.

John sat down heavily onto a chair. Elbows on knees, he cradled his face in his hands.

Alive, thank God. Alive.

But _why_?

Why had the demon taken Dean in the first place, if he were just going to let him go? Why go to all the trouble of leading John and Bobby around by the nose and then end the game short of death? It made no damned sense.

He blew out a ragged breath. God, he was sick of this. One damned disaster after another. There was never any time to just breath. He couldn't go on like this. His _boys_ couldn't go on like this…

Bobby's hand fell onto his shoulder and he jumped, startled.

"You okay?" Bobby asked.

"Bobby –" John swallowed hard. "How can we fight something when we have no idea what the hell is going on?"

Bobby held out the flask. This time John took it.

"Don't sweat the small stuff, John." The old man nodded at the sleeping boys. "What's important right now is lying there on that bed."

After a moment, John nodded, drained the little that was left in the flask and handed it back with a muttered thanks.

Bobby stowed away the empty flask, making a mental note to refill it later. "I'm gonna go pick up the Impala and bring it back here. Probably not a bad idea for you to get some sleep while I'm gone." He nodded at the second bed. "And maybe a shower. You're pretty ripe."

A little reluctantly, John nodded again.

"When I get back, we'll head back to my place, get this thing figured out."

John tried to hide his relief. Just a couple of weeks ago, going to Bobby Singer for any kind of help would have been unthinkable. Now he couldn't imagine being able to do this without him. "Thanks, Bobby."

The old man took a last look at the sleeping boys and left.

ΩΩΩ

The shower helped. By the time he climbed out and dried himself off, John was feeling more himself. Rubbing a towel over his wet head, he came out of the bathroom and stood over his boys' bed.

Looking at them, comfort was the word that came to mind. Dean was lying on his back, and Sam rested peacefully in the circle of his brother's arms, face pressed into the hollow of his throat. They'd kicked off the blanket and their legs were entwined.

John smiled wryly as he pulled the blanket back over them. His boys were closer than any brothers he'd ever known. They _were_ way too comfortable in each other's space, but he'd made his peace with that a long time ago. It was the life they led. They had no other family, no other friends. Even the other hunters they'd come across – well, John didn't like letting anyone get too close to his boys. Not after Jim, and Caleb…

With the ease of long practice, John pushed that long ago memory aside and turned off the overhead light, leaving just the light from the bathroom. Climbing wearily into bed, he lay back on the pillow and tried to relax.

He was just drifting off to sleep when a drowsy voice from the other bed brought him awake.

" _Dean_."

He couldn't say what it was about that single word that caught him but, feeling slightly uneasy, John propped himself up on one elbow and, in the dim light from the bathroom, saw Sam, still asleep, kiss the underside of his slumbering brother's jaw.

John frowned and then Dean sighed, deep and contented.

 _"Baby boy."_

And John knew.

The love in Dean's voice said it all.

Stunned, John collapsed back onto his pillow as a kaleidoscope of images crashed down on him, innumerable little things ignored or missed over the years, which now, taken together, broke through his cast-iron, self-imposed denial and tore out his freaking heart.

He knew.

And, he realized, he had known, on some level, for a very long time.

ΩΩΩ


	24. SECOND HAND DADS

When he finally left the highway and dropped onto the surface streets of New Orleans, Bobby heaved a sigh of relief. Stealing a car to get back to the Impala had been easy. The four or so hours it had taken to get there and then back, not so much. Rush hour traffic had conspired with fender benders and gawkers to bring Bobby close to the brink of insanity. It was a good thing he hadn't had his shotgun with him, or some of those yahoos might not have made it home alive.

Ah, screw it. He shrugged a bit of the tension from his shoulders. Important thing was he'd retrieved the car. And that he'd done for Dean, not John. God knows the boy loved his car.

A few blocks from the motel, he detoured into the drive thru of a burger joint and loaded up with burgers and fries, onion rings for himself and, on reflection, a couple of milkshakes. Strawberry for Sam and chocolate for Dean, as always.

Soul-sucking traffic aside, he felt pretty good. There was a lot of crap still up in the air but, as he'd told John, the boys were safe, and that was all that mattered. It could have been worse. A lot worse.

That, Bobby didn't want to think about. The thought of losing either of them left him cold. They were his, blood or not; had been ever since John had first started dropping them off when they were sprats. Baseball games, zoo trips, bedtime stories. They'd been a huge part of his life. It had hurt when John got his panties in a twist and stopped bringing them over. He wouldn't be forgiving the man for that pain any time soon.

In fact, truth be told, except for the grief it would have caused the boys, he wouldn't have been too broken up if John hadn't made it home from one of those hunts.

He managed to get all the way back to the motel without dipping into the fries, a minor miracle, hungry as he was. The onion rings weren't so lucky. He was popping the last of them into his mouth when he pulled into the motel's mostly deserted parking lot and saw that John's truck was gone. Cursing under his breath, Bobby parked his car in front of their room, climbed out and stomped over to the door, arms full of takeout bags and heart full of apprehension.

John had probably taken Sam to the hospital to get his arm seen to. Yeah, that was it. No need to jump to any hasty conclusions. He'd call, find out where they were and meet up, then they'd convoy back to South Dakota.

Knocking on the door, though, Bobby was thinking that if that sonofabitch had taken those kids away from him again, he was going to do some _serious_ ass-kicking.

Dean opened the door, just a crack, and looked out at Bobby, then looked past him and his face fell. "Where's Dad?"

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped back to let Bobby in.

Bobby went to Sam. The boy was sitting at the table in the kitchenette, dressed and ready to go. His face pale and drawn, he was obviously in some pain.

Dumping the bags onto the table, Bobby laid a hand on the boy's forehead. Warm, but not too bad. "How you doing, kid?"

Sam stared up at him. "Not great," he admitted.

"Bobby, where's Dad?" Dean repeated.

"No idea. He was here when I left."

"He was gone when I woke up." Dean chewed nervously on his lip. "I didn't find a note. I called him but he's not answering."

Bobby pulled out his cell phone and dialed John's number. No answer. Scowling, he looked over at Sam, clearly suffering and not looking the least bit interested in the food.

"We're not waiting." Bobby tossed Dean the keys to the Impala. "Get your stuff into the car. We'll take Sam over to the hospital, then we'll head back to my place."

"But Dad –"

"He'll know where to find us," Bobby said flatly.

The two boys exchanged a look, something in their eyes that Bobby had little hope of translating. Then Dean nodded and went to the duffels sitting by the door, hauling them out the door.

Bobby looked at Sam. "We're gonna get your arm taken care of."

"I'm okay, Bobby."

Bobby snorted. "You will be soon as that arm's set and we get you on some decent painkillers. Not still nauseous, are you?"

Sam shook his head.

"Good." Bobby grabbed up the strawberry shake and stuck a straw in it, handing it to Sam. "Try some."

The boy shook his head and tried to give it back. "I don't think…"

"We need to get something into your stomach, kid. I overshot with the burger and fries, but I think the shake will be okay. Do me a favor. Try it."

Sam did, a little reluctantly, then waited to see how his stomach was going to handle it. After a minute, he took another sip.

Dean came back in. He did a quick sweep of the room and bathroom, then came over to Sam. Voice soft with concern, he said, "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam nodded and got shakily to his feet, still holding the milkshake. With a tired grin, he gestured to the food on the table. "You're not gonna let that go to waste, are you?

Dean grinned back at him. "Hell, no." He dipped a hand into one of the bags and pulled out a handful of fries, stuffing them into his mouth and waggling his eyebrows at his little brother.

Bobby watched as the two left the room, Dean carrying the cooling bags of food; watched from the door as the two settled into the backseat of the Impala, Sam leaning against his brother, head resting on Dean's shoulder.

Growling, Bobby pulled out his cell and dialed John's number again. It went straight to voicemail.

ΩΩΩ


	25. EXIGENCIES

John opened his eyes, then hastily squeezed them tight against the morning light streaming through the window, cursing himself for not drawing the curtains before falling into bed.

He lay there for a long few minutes, waiting for the cymbals crashing in his skull to stop. That didn't happen, so, keeping his eyes closed, he pushed himself up from the bed and stumbled blindly into the bathroom.

He managed to empty his bladder and get into the shower without falling on his face, or puking. Nothing short of a miracle, considering how much rotgut he'd poured down his throat the night before. He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, and then stayed under the cold water until he was shaking with it, punishment for his sins, but nowhere near expiation.

When he finally allowed himself to climb out of the shower, all he wanted to do was fall back into bed and sleep the pain away, but a combination of willpower and self-loathing enabled him to stay away from the bed, and to empty out the dregs from last night's bottle into the sink.

Later in the morning, dressed and feeling more himself, John was doing a final sweep of the nondescript room, preparatory to leaving, when he saw his cell phone lying on the floor next to the bed, the drooping bedspread almost hiding it from view. Crouching down, he picked it up, scrolled through the long list of missed calls and then, mouth tight, stuffed it into his pocket.

He didn't want to listen to the messages waiting for him. If he did, he'd find himself right back in that damned motel room in New Orleans, feeling his heart split apart as he learned what his children had become.

No.

Right now, all he wanted to do, all he _could_ do, was hunt.

Hunt for the demon that had enslaved Dean. Hunt for Sam's assailant. Find the link between his youngest son and Max Miller, before it took Sam to a place he couldn't come back from.

Only then would he be able to face his sons and apologize for what he had done to them.

ΩΩΩ

Bobby stared out of his study window into the yard, watching Dean work on the old Jaguar.

The boy had been working on the car all afternoon, most of it spent rooting around in the undercarriage. It was the fourth vehicle he'd dug into in the three weeks since he and Sam landed in Sioux City and Bobby knew that when he was done, the car would be running better than it had since it first rolled off the assembly line in '68.

Part of what kept Dean under the old car had to do with boredom. Partly, he just flat-out liked to work on cars. But an even bigger part of it, Bobby knew, was that the boy felt a strong need to pay the old hunter back for taking them in.

No need for that, of course, but if it made Dean feel better, Bobby was all for it.

He watched as Dean slid out from under the car. Pulling out a shop rag, the boy wiped off his hands and stuffed the rag back into his pocket. Then he climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. When the engine turned over effortlessly, his grin was huge.

Bobby turned away from the window.

The boys were doing okay, on the surface at least, but it had been more than three weeks since John Winchester had walked out on them. Three weeks of worry and unanswered questions.

Why had he left? Was it voluntary, or had the demon left Dean to replace him with John? Was he coming back?

Hell, was he even still _alive_?

His sons were the best route to finding the answers, but when Bobby had tried to talk to them, Sam had refused to talk about his father at all. When Bobby had pressed him, he'd simply gotten up and walked out of the house.

Dean had followed him, with an apologetic look to Bobby, and a request to give them some time.

Bobby understood. Fathers were never easy. His certainly hadn't been.

One of the hub phones started to ring and he walked into the kitchen, snagging it on the fourth ring. "Singer."

"'Bout time you answered the damned phone," an irritated voice snapped on the other end of the line.

Bobby's sigh was long and heartfelt. "What the hell do you want, Rufus?"

"Well, what I'd like is a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, a nice soft bed and a warm woman to share them with," Rufus said. "I'm gonna have to settle for a bottle of Jack, the back seat of my truck and a damned Wendigo.'

Bobby grimaced. "Where are you?"

"Black Elk Peak," Rufus said flatly. "And there's a lot of damned territory to cover. I need some help or we're gonna have more bodies dropping. How long before you can get here?"

Bobby hesitated. He _was_ the logical choice. Black Elk Peak was only six hours away; four if he busted ass. Odds were no other hunters were as close. But - he didn't like the thought of leaving the boys on their own.

He'd call Mick Garcia, if the crazy bastard wasn't hunting Rakshasas down in Florida. Maybe the Dingo brothers? They didn't like Rufus, but they'd put that aside to bag a Wendigo. Probably.

"You fall asleep over there, Bobby?" Rufus said irritably. "When am I gonna see your scrawny ass?"

"I can't come. It might take some time for me to find someone who won't shoot you the minute he sees you.' Bobby snapped back.

"Well, don't do me any goddamn favors!" Rufus said, indignant. "I'll just take care of the damned thing myself!"

Bobby saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Sam hovered in the kitchen doorway, a large black tome cradled in his arms.

He turned his attention back to the phone. "Just tell me where you are, you jackass. I'll find someone."

Rufus growled out his location, then hung up after an invite for Bobby to buss his posterior.

Bobby hung up the phone, a scowl on his face. "Pain in my ass,' he muttered.

"Hey, Bobby?"

Looking a little diffident, Sam came into the kitchen and lay the open book down on the kitchen table. Running an index finger down the page, he pointed to a relevant paragraph. "I found it."

Bobby read over the paragraph, then looked up at Sam with a grin. "Damn, boy, good job."

"You would've found it."

"Not as fast as you managed it," Bobby said firmly. "Don't sell yourself short. Hunting is more than bullets and blades. It's knowing how to find out what you're hunting and where to find it. And how to kill it." There was a slight question to that last.

Sam grinned, flipped over a few more pages and pointed out another paragraph.

Bobby read it and nodded in satisfaction. "Damned good job, Sam. Thanks to you, I'll have this info ready for Boothby when he calls in tonight."

Sam flushed, pleased. After a slight hesitation, he said, "That was Rufus?"

"Yeah." Bobby grimaced. "You know him?

"I met him once, a few years ago. He and Dad didn't really get along."

"Rufus doesn't get along with anybody. Not for more than five minutes at a time."

"He needs help?"

"Yeah. Wendigo, over on Black Elk Peak. I'm gonna make some calls, find someone to give him a hand."

Sam tilted his dark head, frowning. "You'd be going yourself, if it weren't for us, right?"

"Ah," Bobby fumbled, avoiding the boy's steady gaze. "I don't –"

"You should go."

Bobby started to protest, but Sam ran right over him.

"We'll be fine, Bobby," he said seriously. "It's not like we haven't been left on our own before."

"Oh hell, I know _that_ ," Bobby snorted. "But you gotta admit, there's a hell of a lot of crap going on right now."

"We'll be fine," Sam repeated. "This place is warded against anything demonic, and Dean and I can protect ourselves. You leaving for a few days won't change anything. And you know I can take care of Boothby when he calls, or anyone else that calls in for information."

"I don't know." Bobby shook his head.

A car horn honked.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled from outside. "Come on, let's go for a ride!"

Sam's face lit up. "You should go, Bobby," he said, heading for the door. "We're good."

ΩΩΩ


	26. Chapter 26

Sam and Dean stood on the porch of the old house, watching as Bobby's Chevelle headed down the driveway. As the car disappeared around the bend leading to the road, Dean said quietly, "We should tell Bobby about the dreams when he gets back. And about Max Miller."

Sam stiffened. "Dad said not to."

Dean looked at him in surprise. "I thought you wanted to tell Bobby. Last time we were here you said—"

"That was then," Sam said stubbornly. "Dad said—"

A rush of anger washed over Dean. "I don't care what Dad said. He's not here, is he?"

Sam looked away, biting his lip.

Cursing himself, Dean slid an arm around Sam's shoulder, and pulled him in close. It wasn't Sam he was mad at. "Come on, baby. Tell me what's going on."

Sam sighed. "I just don't want Bobby to look at me the way Dad did."

Dean winced.

"I know you think we can trust him, and I do, too, but Dad was worried if other hunters found out, they might think that I'm…" Sam stumbled to a halt. "They might think I'm evil."

Dean chewed on that for a minute. Dad was right. They'd run into more than a few hunters over the years who tended to be suspicious about people with psychic abilities. Shoot first and ask questions later was their credo.

"Bobby's different," he said finally. "He's not going to think anything bad about you. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut."

Sam nodded, but he clearly wasn't happy about it.

A light rain started to fall and the two went back inside. Locking the door behind them, they stood in the hallway, listening to the silent house.

Suddenly Dean grinned. "I just thought of something."

"What?"

"We're all alone." Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively and made a grab for Sam's ass.

Sam yelped. Laughing, he ran for the stairs. "Loser tops!"

ΩΩΩ

Round about midnight. Cold, dark and wet.

With each drop of rain that slid down the back of his neck, the demon's anger grew. He'd been watching the house since early afternoon; watched the older boy working on a car, seen the old man out and about. The younger one had stayed inside until he'd come out in late afternoon to see the old man off.

He glowered at the house, at the warm light glowing from a second-floor window. Those two boys were in there fucking like bunnies. He could hear it, smell it. A growl rumbled deep in his chest. It should've been him in there. _Him_ , plowing that boy. Who the hell did that bitch think she was, anyway, tossing around orders? Forcing him out of Dean Winchester, forbidding him to take his pleasure with the young one! She'd gotten the best of him back in New Orleans but hanging out with the big boys didn't make her better than the rank and file. She'd just caught him off guard.

After a while, the light in the house went out. The demon licked his lips and smiled, an ugly smile. Time to find a way in past the house wards and have him some sloppy seconds.

There was a sound behind him, the scrape of boot over earth. Snarling, he spun to confront the threat, but too late. A silver blade flashed in the night and plunged into his chest, bright-white light suffused his face and his body collapsed boneless to the earth.

Lightning flickered in the distance and the rain started coming down harder, spattering down into dead eyes and open mouth.

A dark figure stared at the distant house for a long time, then disappeared into the night.

ΩΩΩ

Body slick with sweat, Dean collapsed to the mattress beside his brother. " _Fuck_!"

Sam laughed, still trying to catch his breath. "Oh, _man_ , so much better than the backseat of the Impala!" he gasped

Dean planted a kiss on the tip of Sam's nose, then rose from the bed and padded to the bathroom. After cleaning up, he returned to the bedroom with a damp washcloth and washed off his dozing brother, then tossed the washcloth toward the laundry basket in the corner of the room and crawled back into bed.

Rousing, Sam shifted onto his side and the two cuddled into each other's arms, no sound in the room but rain against the window, no light but the guttering candles.

Dean was starting to drift off to sleep, when Sam said softly, "Dean, do you think he knew? About us? Was that why he left?"

That hellish thought hadn't even occurred to Dean. He grimaced. "I don't think so, Sammy. We were pretty careful."

"I know, but…" Sam hesitated. "Was it because of what happened with Max? Because of my dreams? He was pretty freaked out, maybe he decided it was too much, maybe –"

Shaking his head, Dean pressed his fingers against Sam's mouth, stemming the flow. "Baby, whatever it was, it doesn't change anything, not between you and me. That's what's important, right?"

Sam nodded.

"As long as we're together, we can handle anything."

Sam nodded again but Dean, looking into his eyes, saw something that his brother probably didn't want him to see. Something Sam would never say out loud.

"I'll never leave you, Sammy." He brushed a kiss across Sam's lips. "Ever. I'd have to be dead to leave you."

Murmuring contentedly, Sam lay his head against Dean's chest and the two settled in to sleep.

Leaving unspoken the truth that if Dean ever did "leave" Sam, his brother would be right behind him.

ΩΩΩ


	27. ENTER, STAGE LEFT

"Hey, Sammy!" Head under the hood of an old Mustang, Dean's voice was muffled. "Hand me the socket wrench, would ya?"

"Which one's the socket wrench?"

There was a short silence, then Dean emerged from beneath the hood and glared at Sam. The force of the glare was somewhat weakened by the smear of grease on his forehead.

Sam handed over the wrench with a grin. "Just kidding."

Dean retreated back under the hood with a snort. "Turn the radio on, will you, baby?"

"Sure, Dean." Completely aware of and not in the least worried by the sappy smile on his own face, Sam turned on the radio perched on top of the car, listening contentedly as his brother started to sing along with Freddie Mercury.

 _Damn_ , but he felt good!

Sure, it was partly because of the awesome sex he and Dean had been having in the few days since Bobby left, but it was a hell of a lot more than that.

It was being off the road and not stuck in a motel room or the Impala for hours on end.

It was being in a place where he truly felt at home, and safe.

It was feeling like things were normal; or, at least, as normal as things ever got for them.

Also, something Sam would never admit to his brother, it was being away from their father.

Sure, it was hard knowing their father had left because of Sam's bullshit. But nowhere near as hard as being around John's relentless suffocating fear of what was happening to Sam.

Another thing he would never admit to his brother was that Sam kind of hoped that John would stay away until he came to terms with having a freak for a son. It was hard enough dealing with his prophetic dreams and all the rest of it without his father treating him like an unexploded bomb.

"Sam! Needle nose pliers!" Dean's impatient tone made it clear it wasn't the first time he'd made the request.

"Sorry." Sam bent over and rooted around in the toolbox, located the pliers and handed them to his brother, accepting the wrench back in exchange and dropping that back into the toolbox.

Yawning – they really hadn't got much sleep the night before - he caught a movement from above and looked up, squinting against the glare of the winter sun. A bird, big and black, was floating in a wide circle over the property in back of the scrap yard.

Sam watched it idly. Carrion bird. Probably checking out a dead animal. Rabbit, maybe.

Then he saw a second bird making its own circle.

And a third.

An uneasy feeling settled in at the back of his neck. Straightening, he rapped on the Mustang's hood. "Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Back in a minute."

"Okay. Where you going?"

Sam didn't answer, already out of earshot and heading through the scrapyard at a quick trot.

It took just a couple of minutes to reach the back of the yard. As he neared the fence, another bird joined the party overhead and he heard the sound of growls and yips. Quickening his pace, he nimbly monkeyed up the side of the back fence and looked over into the total chaos on the other side.

Blood, a lot of it, soaking into the ground and splashed across the sparse winter vegetation. Part of a blue-jeaned leg over here, a gnawed arm over there, and two coyotes having a fierce tug of war over what looked to be a human torso. And there, just a little further into the brush, a third coyote gnawing on what looked like a skull, held securely between its two front paws.

"Oh, shit. Shit, shit, _shit_!'

Fighting back his quickly rising nausea, Sam slid back down the fence, landing on his butt. The impact shook loose the little control he had over his stomach and he started to gag, barely managing to get to his hands and knees before vomiting into the weeds.

Some dreary time later, he heard Dean calling his name. He didn't answer, just continued taking deep breaths of cold air, until his brother crouched down beside him, his hand gentle on Sam's shoulder.

"Sammy?"

Pretty sure he was done puking, Sam spat into the dirt, then sat back on his haunches and jabbed a thumb at the fence, where the sound of growling on the other side was growing louder.

With a last worried glance at Sam, Dean scrambled up the fence.

One long, _fraught_ minute later, Dean said venomously, "Are you fucking _kidding_ me?"

ΩΩΩ

"Forget it. Bobby said he'd be back sometime tonight. There's no point in calling. We'll just wait until he gets here. It's not like he could do anything about it." Dean's head dropped back against the top of the couch and he let out a resentful huff. "Damn it, why does this shit always happen to _us_?"

Sprawled on the other side of the couch, Sam said snarkily, "It's only surprising when this shit _doesn't_ happen to us."

"Yeah, but we've been having such a great time," Dean said, moodily kicking at the worn carpet. "Is it too much to ask for just a _little_ bit of normal?"

"Dude, that's _my_ line." Sam scooched over next to his brother and leaned into him.

Grumbling discontentedly, Dean hauled Sam onto his lap and nuzzled into his neck. "The only thing that's gonna make this shit fest any better is if we fool around some more before Bobby gets here."

Sam was definitely on board for that. He eagerly offered his mouth for a kiss, then froze at the sound of an approaching vehicle. He sighed. " _Damn_ it."

"Oh, _man_." Dean groaned. "Back to sex in the back seat of the Impala."

"In the middle of winter? We'll freeze!"

"Well, Sammy, maybe if you weren't such a screamer!" Cackling, Dean dodged Sam's punch, then dumped his brother off his lap and onto the floor.

"Dean, you jerk!" Not quite able to hide his grin, Sam accepted a hand up from his snickering brother and the two headed for the front door.

Taking a final squeeze of Sam's ass as they reached it, Dean slipped in front of him and flung open the door.

No Bobby. They could see a car parked in the middle of the yard, but beyond that, just a faint shadow of movement in the cold night.

Uneasy, Dean kept hold of the door, ready to slam it shut if necessary. "Bobby? That you?"

"Damn it!" Bobby roared out from the dark. "Turn on the damned outside lights!"

Sam obeyed, reaching quickly for the light switch, and the yard lights blazed into life, revealing Bobby easing someone out of the back seat of his Chevelle. Not Rufus. A man, tall and slim, head sagging and long dark hair obscuring his face, leaned heavily against Bobby, clearly unable to bear his own weight.

"Dean, gimme a hand!"

A quick startled glance between the two boys and Dean ran out to help the old man, Sam with him.

"Dean, help me get him into the house," Bobby rapped out. "We're gonna put him in the room back of the library."

Dean nodded and put a shoulder under the stranger's arm, taking most of the weight from Bobby. "Okay, buddy. I got you."

The young man raised his head and blinked dazedly up at him. "Dean?"

Dean took a closer look. "Holy shit! _Wiley_?"

"Surprise," Wiley said faintly. His eyes turned to Sam. "This must be your brother."

"Maybe you girls could have this little reunion inside!" Bobby snapped. "Sam, take the car and park it in the barn back of the garage. Be quick. We don't have much time."

Sam didn't ask questions. With one last curious glance at the stranger, he slid into the Chevelle and drove it around the side of the garage and into the big barn.

By the time he got the barn locked up and ran back to the house, the yard was vacant and dark.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of an approaching siren.

ΩΩΩ


End file.
